(e.j.p)

my arms feel wrong my hands are moving rapidly over your body, dying to memorise every bump, every scar the one running across your left shoulder blade after you fell from that tree when you were a kid the one behind your knee from when you slipped on that bench and ripped your pants the one over your eyebrow from when you and your friend fought infront of that supermarket the ones on your wrists that you did on your own the many small burn marks your dad left scattered across your body from his cigarettes memorising them all, good and bad it feels like a goodbye, and it was.