You lost the right to miss me.
You lost the right to call my name
in your sleep or to tuck yourself in
with the memory of my body next to yours.
You lost the right to remember what’s it
like to hug me, kiss me, feel me, have me.
You never actually did have me. You had
something you wanted to have, you didn’t see
me and you didn’t know nothing but my name
You lost the right to come back into my life
to disrupt the months of progress it took to clear
my life of your memory, to stop the grieving.
I had to grow new skin, rip out the hair you played with,
fix the heart you played with, mend the glass shattered
soul you left behind and I did it by my damn self so NO
you can’t walk through that door.
You lost the right to ever call me yours.
You gave up.
You left.
You lost.
You lost the right to tell anyone about me.
You lost the right to feel good because we were once a thing.
You lost the right to look at the pictures we took.
You lost the right to feel my scent in the shirt I left.
For as much as I care, you lost the right to live.
