one day I will be my own.
I will be my own and you will not be able to turn me
inside out.
you will not be able to
twist my spine and tie me
in knots.
you will not be able to leave holes
in my skin,
from where you pushed your needles through and
into my bones, injecting me with your
hateandguiltandshameandsadness and everything else
that’s on the bottom of your shoe.
You will not be able to fill me
with tidal waves,
your words the earthquakes,
our home the shore.
You will not be able to stand
over me and pick me apart
like crows on pavement standing
over roadkill.
I will not be your detached rabbit,
split open by tires and unable to
stop you from filling your belly with
my decaying heart and
fly filled lungs.
You will not be able to turn me
into a smothered fire,
flames licking my ribs,
smoke filling my insides
and begging my skin to
let it out.
You will not be able to break your teeth
over my bones
and have my forgiveness in the morning.
one day I will be my own.
none of me will belong to you or owe you anything.
one day I will be free,
and you will be dust,
and I won’t have to be
sorry.