CanisCedazoensis
Lying here, dying here, consciousness fading with every drop of blood that pumped from my weakening veins onto the cold, undeserving concrete, would almost be bearable if you were here to hold me in the crook of your arm and tell me you love me one last time.
When he looked in the mirror, all he saw was the scars. They crisscrossed his stomach, his back, his ribs, permanent representations of the mental scars that, unlike these wounds, would never be able to heal.