, , ,

was a blunt trauma
and you could spot
the contusion
that marked where
good, and bye bit
my arm

“i’ve moved on”
was a glass splinter
and you could trace
the line
that marked where
your convalescence
incised my heart

“I hope you’re happy now”
was a needle
and you could see
the dot of wounds
that marked where
your false desires
punctured my skin

“i don’t recall us”
was a semi-automatic
and you could cry
around the chalk
tracing the outline
where I laid
dead on the spot
from a gunshot