More than seven years have gone by
since you closed your eyes to die.
All my skin has grown brand new,
none of it is tainted by you:
Your hands, your fingers,
the cigarette breath that lingers
on every memory that tortures me.
Imagine that, my skin is mine,
every pore and every line,
given back to me to love;
Pure as the white of the wedding dove.
It feels as dirty as it ever did,
as dirty as the secret life you hid.
With every memory, it tortures me.
Will my body ever be mine?
Or just a capsule locked in time,
to harbour pain, to harbour hurt,
hollowed out and filled with dirt.
You took my happiness to the grave,
so as I face the day I must be brave
and forget that you once tortured me.