I thought you had a really cool tatt,

until I saw it was a line of sores that

you had been picking at.

I liked the way the blood caked.

I liked the delicacy of where your skin flaked

from last weeks sun burn.

You were this weeks stomach churn,

my latest after hours ache.

At least your hand picked scar would fade.

Useless adolescent longing,

like there was a hole in me big enough

to hold the world,

knowing that I would never find a way to get it all inside,

that there would always be a part of me that was empty.

At least your hand picked scar would fade

eventually.