i am no longer an inhabitant of that body
surely, life is just
a collection of deaths
each a stuttering memory
and the good parts
on repeat until the needle stops
or the pattern erodes a new melody
but then, i live
and die by my pen
like somewhere
in the bleak faded letters
their exists some face
i might recognize
i exist now
i exist right fucking now
and that’s all
the me of yesterday didn’t end
she just grew-up
and, you know, walked away