Your Memory is a Wound

Perhaps the alcohol cleansed you of the memory of my skin on yours.

Did you really despise me that much in the end?

I watched you drink it all away– the flinch at my touch, my hideousness, and your repulsion of me… My soft tummy, my broken skin, my ruined body.

The body I became with you.

Perhaps if I had been drunk enough, unforgiving and drugged, you would have loved me.

Should I have betrayed your trust like you did me? Is that the way to win your affection again?

I begged like a little girl. I cried at your feet and I hate myself for it.

I won’t forgive and I can’t forget. At least not yet. I remember you on these cold nights and the rain feeds my pain.

I want to dig you out from my skin and wash the wounds away.

If only I could rip your memory from my veins…