The Eulogy of the Dead “Me”s

Without saying it,
I know;
it is the last time I will talk to you.
Our conversation:
the last branch that will bow
to each other’s will.
A goodbye,
but not a “sorry”,
on either side.

I am dead to you.

And yet,
the thing that makes this entirely unfair
is that until it happened
I did not let the “her”
you killed be dead to me.

Let this end with
the submissive me,
the one who was internally cringing.
Let this end with the girl
who memorized your face on the train,
instead of blurting, “I’m sorry.”
Let this be the girl who holds her body like
apology.
Let this be the girl
that you made feel unpretty.
Let this be her
that wasn’t her,
or her,
or that one chick with the nice ass in the mall,
and let her cry ugly.

I am dead to you.
And that’s okay,
because, in truth, “she”
was never,
nor someone I want to be ever,
me.

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