24 scars later

I've got 11:09 tears on my steering wheel.

I've got a tight heart pinned to my ribcage, waiting for 17-year-old Me to make an appearance.

I've got 18 letters from 24 months and friends who think I don't understand.

But I've got a thousand of his words, 

and words, 

I understand.

I've got my soul making up words close to 'choke' and 'chain' and 'tight' to toy with my faltering heart rate.

I've got hours and hours built up between us,

even though the clock on my collarbone has been going off for 24 months.

I've got a clock gripping my lungs, clawing its way to 17-year-old Me.

But 17-year-old Me died when the scenery changed and the love letters expired.

I've got 18 letters and they're all expired.

I've got good intentions and an innocence the color of cotton.

I've got 24 months of chaos on my back, tied down by a brickload of forget-me-not moments,

and friends who think I don't understand.

I've got friends who don't understand.

I've got friends who never called happiness a bottle, or pleasure a pill, 

who grew up on morning prayers and caffeine spills and called their mistakes 'sins'.

I've got sins and mistakes all jammed into my ribcage, 

deep eyes from the tears that tore through,

and 11 heartbreaks pounding out my eardrums.

The rest of these scars,

they're just aftermath.

From the depression.

I've got torn skin and an electric pulse.

I've got less hair and more fears.

And I've got friends who think I don't understand.

And me,

who wishes

they were right.