You are not your scars.
You are not the names he called you,
the words that seethed in the back of your throat like the rust you tasted every time he split your lip.
You are not the two hospital bracelets that scalded your skin like shame,
that tasted like his fist when you tore them off with your teeth.
You are not your memories.
You are not the cold sweats, the nightmares.
You are not the tremble in your hands when you smell his cologne.
You are so much more than all of this.
You are constantly being reborn.
There are parts of you that never knew his touch. There are parts of you that always will. This is okay. It all came from supernovas, and it will return to dust someday. Know this and love yourself for it.
Polish the last of his fingerprints from your bones.
You are too beautiful
to let him haunt you like this.
You are too good for his ghost.