Twenty Seven

I want you to know that I am fine. Better. And much younger than when you left me.

My friends shake their heads at my new chain-smoking habit, say it's not like me
(but then again this new person, this head held up, this chest pain is not like me either),

but they're relieved at my ability to laugh from the gut once again. People compliment me for no particular reason, recognizing that something better, brighter shines now without you.

I dance, add spices to my food, speak feeble Spanish and let go a little more.
I break rules I never dared touch, swear carelessly and try to be a little more selfish, knowing in the back of my head that I was a good girl all these good years, and goodytwoshoes got me nowhere with you.

And even if my feet hurt and my back aches from too little sleep and too much dancing, I am secure in the knowledge that this hurt, this loneliness and the lack of warmth beside me in my bed are far far better than the half-love, the semi-life you gave me.

There is so much joy in this awkward body, this little curve of the belly, these cheeks worn out from too much smiling, too much to be contained by you or anyone unsure of what I am.

I am letting go of the anger, of the intense desire that you feel even half the pain you caused me.
And one day I may be able to cross your path and nod hello. Just not now, not yet.

Now I’m rebuilding buildings lost in our fights and fires, remembering how my hands spread out like maps on your back, and knowing that one day, someday soon, I will find a better compass, a better man to make my home.