the black and blue marks your hands leave around my throat are the only things i've learned to call art and the dried up blood stains you left on the sheets are the only thing i've learned to call home. i've seen the hollow behind your eyes after the snowfall buried the streets we sat in. i've seen the trembling in your veins after everything we knew had been hidden and washed away. and i've heard the monotonous haze of your voice when you told me you would love me forever, which sounded quite awfully similar to the way you told your parents you would stay in for the night. but ended up smoking in my bed.