I will be your 4am phone calls.
I will be your drunk thought, the one that hides in your mind, the peaking memory you forgot you had stored up. I am not your second thought, I’m not even your third or fourth. My face is what comes to your mind when you’re stumbling home from the bar. My hand in yours as you struggle to get your cigarette to light in the wind. My morning eyes burning in your head as you swallow your last shot, skipping the chaser. I am who you refer to when you remember who you use to be and can’t think of who you actually are in the moment. I am the voice that you think in when you’re trying to talk yourself down from the ledge. I am the reflection of you, I am the last thing you were the best at. I am the only thing you’ve ever been the very best at. My love is the only trophy you have shined and locked up. I am your scrap book, my limbs coming to you as if you were looking at old photographs, tucked away in a memory box. I am who you try not to think about when you fuck other girls and they don’t stay up long enough to talk with you. I am who you try to fold up, pack away, keep safe. I am stitched in your skin and when she tells you that she loves green eyes you remember how I always knew that one was more blue. I am in your pores. I am in your breath. I am under your skin. I am the last thing you hold onto because I am the last piece of evidence that at one time, you didn’t hate yourself the way you do now.
I am expendable and yet you cannot throw me away.