Occasionally I think about you, the way you had this mouth that seemed to open up far too wide, and I am strangely, perversely enthralled by how much you held on to me, how long I felt you worm your way through my guts.
If that was love, I don’t know what I’m doing right now with my life.
I prefer to think of you in terms of intestinal parasites.
I had a bad case of you, and now I’m finally cured. It’s so different, not giving a shit about you, that I sometimes remember that I did. I suppose you will always be a scar, faded and fading, still — but there, marking me.
I had to bear witness to what you did to me, to become the person I am. I am not certain I can say I would not change what happened, but I am certain I can finally say I forgive you.
Now if only you’d just stay dead.