Three long years have passed,
your name no longer inspires
the movement of scars growing
down my thighs. There is no more
wishing it were different.

How could I have known, the type
of person you would be? When you sold me
tragic stories and blown out veins.

Addicted to the addiction of saving
someone from themselves, but who
would dare rescue me? I buried
your memory and in its' place
a garden blooms, every scar fades.

Each day I work toward peace,
forgiving and forgetting your solemn face.

You were in need of a fix,
I had become of your drug of choice,
now-
in learning,
I am the heroine of my own story.