Ink
I’m scribbling questions to you all over my skin.
The tattered remains of you and me running down my arms,
the ink spilling onto my hands. This is all I have left
to remind me to ask: ‘Do you hate me?’
and ‘Do you regret what happened?’
Because I don’t.
And I’m still waiting for your answers.
But you say, ‘A kiss is just a kiss is just a kiss.’
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