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history
i have
scars.
like a history textbook,
like the teacher droning
on,
on,
on.
like a fire alarm
piercing the classroom,
making small children
jump up in their seats.
my scars
are a map,
street signs pointing down
towards my hips
where your hands
once held me.
my scars point down
towards the ground
i tread on,
the ground
you used to kiss.
my scars
tell our story.
when i met you,
my skin was clean,
the skin
of a china doll.
tangled in sheets,
they are the marks
your fingernails
left on my back.
when you marked
your territory.
and the grand finale
shows where i tried
to cut your touch
from my skin.
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