It has taken me this long to realize
that my body has a hard enough time
healing itself without me breaking it
to completion. Yet my instinct is still
to throw my stupid heart under moving
trains, never satisfied to let leaving
things go without tearing me apart.
I have made a sport out of confusing the chronology of discovering you, forgiving you, anticipating you, and forgetting you. I have to accept the fact that it’s over, and it’s time to stop dragging your shadow like a carcass around my shoulders, thinking you’re still with me, when you’re just a living memory. Still attached, umbilical.