When he pushed his lips to yours and tilted his head back, your only vein clotted, trying to stop him. The thick and murky orange water of your core drained through bubbling gasps onto his tongue and down his throat. They smelled like her. 
You were made to be used, but this untethered consumption was rushed. You waited for years at the back of a cabinet, hoping to please his tongue, but it wasn’t what he wanted; it wasn’t what you wanted. It wasn’t your lips he wanted to kiss. It wasn’t your body he needed to feel, your voice he needed to hear. You were the liquid hydrocodone made to soften her thorns. One hundred grams in a glass bottle. As the final drop spilled down his throat, he closed his eyes and sighed for her.
Your name swayed into itself just below your neck and swirling tattoos curled up and down your sides, along your wrists and into your ankles like unclouded platforms pushing outward from your skin. Front and back. The pads of your feet were stamped with the time. Pat’d Dec 25-94. Even you missed her.
The warm hands that held on to yours loosened. The warm hands you so longed to feel cooled. Your fingertips pressed intertwining letters into his. But his cooling hands couldn’t hear you, and his closing eyes couldn’t see you. He let you go, holding on to her.
And in honor of him, you hit the floor, your narrow neck cracking. A little chip swelled from your lips and spilled onto the hardwood. Hours passed until dainty hands attached to sleeves and fatigue pushed you across the floor. Her knees sat by your shards, and she unfolded his fist and found something. Intertwining letters from his fingertips, one last love letter.