We used to think that the pale scars on our arms meant that we were survivors,
screaming into the dark winter sky about how we ruled the world.
We wrapped each other up in artificial happiness,
knowing that someday things would change.
That we would be okay, that we would find our Something Great.
We were too high on being young that we didn’t notice ourselves grow older.
We danced when the sun set, because we were too nervous
to do it by the light of day.
We used to talk about how we didn’t have to stay.
That one day we would see the buildings touch the sky,
and hear the taxi cabs race on the pavement.
Yet, we still sat in the same grey coffee shop,
flashed the same people fake smiles,
and closed our eyes against the world that didn’t seem real.
We hoped that one day, someone would take us by the shoulders
and whisper in our ears that our lives were significant.
That Abbygayle would be fine, and that Johnny never left.
We waited for that someday for so long that we
never survived the scars on our arms,
because we never stopped fighting for our Something Great.