I don't think about how you hurt me, or how you left. The way you made me feel has been washed away by the smoldering anger that keeps me warm at night. You're referred to as "that ass" when I'm talking to friends or my therapist. I've let go of the love and hurt I'd associated with you because remembering you isn't worth it. I am always happier on my own, in the company of my ghosts. You aren't one of them. I may be reckless, but never enough to allow myself to have an intuitive link to you, or anyone like you. Not anymore. I fall asleep happy. I feel lighter. I don't have someone to mess with my emotions or my heart. You let me in and I ripped your heart out with a smile on my face. My fingers are still tinged with your blood, and I laugh. Because I may have left behind destruction, but you're just a line in this poem.
You are just a line in a poem I wrote about the destruction I leave in my trail of broken hearts.
