As I try so hopelessly to wash his lingering scent out of my hair and off of my skin,
I realize that as I rub so vigorously over and over the surface of my body, its beginning to hurt.
But I cannot stop, I need him to leave.

I need to be 16 and not live for what is to come, but what is,
I rub harder.

I need to fall in love with movies and authors, not boys who are here today and not tomorrow,
I rub harder

My thoughts overflow with images of him, like some sort of broken faucet with missing handles, pouring in more than I can take.

I rub harder. I rub until I bleed, because that's sort of what this is all about.

The thought of leaving him is like getting your finger caught between the closet doors, or forgetting that you left your favorite book outside and coming to find the spring showers bled the words together.

And now, all that is left as I lift myself out of the soapy water, will be the red patched left on my skin.

Because hes no longer mine, maybe he never really was.