I keep picking at our story, letting it scab over only to open it fresh again, thousands of blood cells coursing to the top for each moment together. Every time its scab over again, it’s for a little longer, and a little more skin is formed, and the wound gets smaller. It’ll scar, new light brown pink cells showing off, proud to have beaten my impulses. I doubt you have a matching one. You started dating someone else before we stopped. You penciled me a letter so I could be as easily erased from your life. I’ll burn it someday.
Colochos de Flores 