My Dear

by hellorousseau

My dear:

The last 365 days have turned me into something I wasn’t:
turned inside-out be grief that pounded at my temples,
eaten by your words and your claims of abuse,
swallowed whole by the pit in my stomach that had vomited me up and swallowed me again,
picked at my bones with anger
and lust in my teeth,
drank liquor until my body shook
with what you took and loved from me,
destroyed my ideas of what is right

and what is right

and what is right

and what is fair,
died for you — pleading not to — I died for you.

But,

the last 365 days have turned me into something I was:
unbroken by love from a boy with curly hair and sad blue eyes and the clammiest hands,
set free from your mind games and your anger,
liberated from your echoing hatred and violent resentment,
plucked from my old ways and poured into my new,
rid of you.

Completely rid of you.

Like I was always supposed to be, my dear.

Rest easy. I think of you sometimes, but never.
Just like how you thought of me.

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