It has been
four hundred
and ninety three days.
I counted
Again
and again.
Years can eke on
and you can forget to count
because it stops mattering
but this always matters
the numbers matter
the days matter
everything matters
And then it doesn't.
It has been
three thousand
one hundred
and eighteen days.
I counted.
I counted,
only once.
Once was enough.
Three thousand
one hundred
and eighteen days.
They say that every seven years
you are made of
entirely new cells
untouched,
you are not damaged goods
you are not broken
for fucks sake,
you are not BROKEN.
Years can eke on.
They shouldn't matter.
Seven years shouldn't matter
But they matter,
these years matter
and I matter
and I don't owe you
a fucking thing
I don't owe you my genetics
I don't owe you a fucking thing
And I will burn you down
to the ground
to prove it.
I was seventeen
and I was terrified to turn eighteen
they tell you
you're supposed to know who you're meant to be
You're supposed to know,
but I didn't,
mostly because I was tearing myself to shreds
trying to be anyone else.
I was seventeen
and I thought it was better to be dead
than risk ever being touched by you again,
I thought being dead would rid me of you
I thought being dead-
I thought killing myself was the right thing to do.
And two weeks later
I decided that you had taken enough.
I told you that I hated you,
and that I wanted you to die.
But I never hit send.
Because you have taken enough.
It has been four hundred
and nintety three days.
I counted.
