This is me letting go.
Of you.
Of the shell of us.
I am not yours,
And I have accepted that you are no longer mine.
I am done.
Now, one who is extremely familiar with the English language might correct me and say that, no, I am not "done;" I am "finished."
"Cakes are 'done,' people are 'finished.'"
I am inclined to disagree.
I feel as if I have been freshly prepared.
Made.
I have risen, I am new.
I am clean.
Getting over you, looking back, was a process.
I am done.
