Scribbles

if I had a scratch on my face

for every time i’ve fucked something up

I wouldn’t have a face left

just ink and scars

a canvas of bad decisions

stitched together with excuses

and half-assed apologies

you could trace my skin

like a crime scene

each mark a reminder

of someone I hurt

or something I ruined

I used to think the wounds would fade

but they only multiply

so I stopped counting

and let them cover me whole

So I wear what’s left

like it’s still me

though I don’t think

there’s much of me left at all