At sixteen,
you called me the girl in the beanie.
As f all the mystery and allure
Woven into that black hate
Captured your soul.
Words tripped from your lips
And ricocheted off my scarred skin,
Bruising you in the process.

At sixteen,
We blew smoke rings around the stars,
And wove dreams into the bottom
Of empty vodka bottles.

At sixteen,
I chased pain
With half a dozen paracetamol,
And whispered phone calls in the dead of night
Ending in
"I'm sorry."

At sixteen,
You drew a map of broken dreams
On the inside of my thighs,
Tracing pathways of everywhere I've been.
Every battle I've fought.
And lost.

At sixteen,
The blades of destruction
Carved their way between us,
Until I was holding all our shattered dreams
Like shards of glass
In my hands.

Bloody, bruised and battle scarred,
At seventeen,
My heart still beats to the same rhythm as yours.
And we,
We will not be broken.