Coming Undone

My mouth tastes of rust. A lingering metallic taste I can't replace. The words you said roll around on my tongue, steep themselves into my teeth. They cut sharp and clean — they draw neat little beads of blood. My hair always smells of smoke. The smoke of the cigarettes that you didn’t smoke. It sinks deep into my roots, swirls around inside my brain. It rests on my fingertips and digs itself into my nails.

 Am I rotting?

 Am I rotting from the inside out?

 I’m not rotting. The part of me that loved you — it is coming undone.

 It’s exorcising itself out. Soon it will be gone. Soon she will be gone.

And I, I will be free.