Started to let the edge in your words reverse me, unwind the sounding grounding that I had worked so hard to bring. The doubt that marked me for so long, letting your opinion of me begin to paint that familiar old picture. The stories won’t die, they live on in you and what you choose to survive. Picking my bones and leaving me, in a paragraph form, thoughts that character me out and float me back into your daydreams. If you could recreate me, allow the days to pass and morning to spring. Maybe I could become new, released from the narrow view. Letting it affect me, the sharpness and the pegs that are pegged on the being that is never firm. Jelly molds that are kept from our experiences, our fragile interaction, both trying and dieing into the next cusped moment. As though I could fit into a frame, frozen on your floor. I am only beginning to forget the person you told me I was, in your looks and angry words. But these skins shed, the memories fade and bleed into new creations, we all are patch work, glued patiently together. You bring it back, plant me in the world of statuettes, those who you walk by and blame. It almost turned me to stone, cracked foundations and grown over. The anger washes and cleanses me, ironing out the creases in my forehead. This won’t bring me down, these daggered drips of your calloused fingers, pointing in my direction. No longer, I start again every morning and at the end of the day I can see myself full in the mirror. Apologies wept on my pillow, I cried enough to empty out. You can’t haunt me anymore.