23

 I have not thought about you in a minute, in days so long that I can’t picture remember your face anymore.

I have you buried, erased somewhere in my mind, with occasional check-ins to be sure thoughts of you are never sprouting.

Some nights I feel the need to punish myself, to wallow in pity and make it hard to breathe. 

Your name is still a chain of discomfort, a magical spell that makes every sweet thing taste like bile. 

I still hate you. I still hate myself more.

But I don't feel anything anymore and I can look you in the face now. I can pat myself on the back now and say it was all for the best while meaning it. Yes.