dear boy with the angel voice,
i had a guitar in the back of the room and you were staring at it as i played with the ends of your hair.
you placed a tiny kiss on my chest and looked up at me. "i want to play something," you told me.
you got up and the loss of contact was making me freeze, but you had on my boxers though we didn't have sex and one of my tank tops on, you just wanted to wear my clothes.
you picked up my dad's old guitar and sat on the edge of my bed. i didn't know what you were playing, but you were good at it and you seemed to like the song a lot. you played me the part you liked the most because it reminded you of yourself a bit.
"what a waste of a perfectly good, clean wrist.
you were screaming til the police came.
can we create something beautiful and destroy it?"
i glanced at the faded scars on your wrist and smiled sadly, you continued to play and you were tearing up.
you told me that song got you through some tough shit and i believed you.
from, boy who now listens to that song every night.
