they say
every seven years
every cell in my body
will replace itself.
and in seven months
my time will be up.
but that means
i will have a body
that you have never once touched.
well, i mean, for a while, at least.
a few days, maybe, if anything.
for 12:00 am will occur on the last day in december
but your hands will still be all over me.
it can be 49 years without
and i will still feel
your phantom hands
grabbing my ankles, pulling me toward you
smashing my legs with wood
bruises appear seconds after
violet, indigo, sunshine, and mud
the sunshine is blinding
and it burns
your head is incased in mud
and i will laugh as you suffocate.
and you will ask me why i did that to myself
and i will scream and cry
and thrash and break
you will laugh
for yes, in a year
i will be 14 years old
but the memory of you
will not leave my body
as if there's something tying you to this place
something that's yours
for it can be
a new year
but, unfortunately
of course
i cannot go
the rest
of my life
without ever
having the residue
of my mother's fingerprints
upon me
because the world is a cruel mistress
because it patterns itself in a way
that it knows we will not discover;
for the world does not change,
it only repeats.
