I remember how insecure he was about his mind. His mind was infested with darkness, and he was not willing to share that with many people. He was in pain. I remember kissing his forehead, in hopes to place a band-aid over his pain. I was convinced that I could’ve kept him that way. He would see souls of past memories in his mind when his heart wanted to be mine. His pain manifested itself as scars on my own skin, my thighs became a battlefield of grief, as if I did not do enough. Survivors guilt filled my heart, and I kept kissing his forehead in hopes to drain his pain out of his mind.