In the scar on my arm. 
Apples, knives. 
The prom. Eaten up. 
A dozen roses in the stall. 
A faraway, fixed look in the eye. 
Poison darts. 
What you get when you get 
what you want. When you take it. 
No scene, no pulling cord 
from amp, no swizzling bass line 
or feedback buzz. But the power 
to make wishes come true. 
To live a story so that you might tell it 
for the rest of your life. 
To find out years later 
you’ve lost interest in telling. 
Stories that become secrets 
by omission. Who was she? 
I love her but I am not her.