No. Not this time.


I purged my archives of you the other day.

I was half expecting, that if I saw your face again, even through a screen,
that my chest would twinge at the acidity of what was lost –
at the corrosive memory of what was stolen from us.
But I gazed upon your photographs and felt nothing.

I remember the first time I had my heart broken.
How it left me empty, crippled and cold for years.
The first cut was always the deepest,
but I healed and walked on, beautifully sewn.

You sliced through me in new places,
Ripped through cells and flesh that trusted you.
Did I collapse in a gory heap? Yes.
Did I bleed out? No. Not this time.

My body knew exactly what to do when even your shadow had gone.
I no longer needed a hundred sunrises to pick up the pieces.
I’ve filled my lungs and fists with love and kindness,
til all I have is a hunger to save others from the cruelty you’ve shown me.


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