I smell my clean hair
and scrape my fingers down my soft skin.
I miss you, but not as much;
not as much now that i know what is my skin that belonged to you,
and what is my skin,
period.
I make myself clean so I don’t find myself how you left me
***** and alone.
now i’m only the latter.
I’ve scrubbed the dirt from you off my hands, gouged it from behind my fingernails.
What is left is clean, sterile skin;
not without cuts and bruises
from when the grime clung too tight, from when i pried it off with broken nails
sobbing
'get off get out leave me here'