You have been coming and going for so long that
even my skin cells are starting to commit suicide
and buzz-in for replacements, and there are no
record-keeping systems
in my epidermis.

Soon, I will have two new lips that cannot describe
if yours taste more like
raspberry lemonade or cherry soda,
and I will have two new hands that claim
they have never ran their fingers
around the rough edges of yours before.

Every time you have come back, I have bit my lip and
jammed your lies and habit of breaking promises
deep into my halfhearted chest
like a steak knife. I have twisted it,
then walked around as if I did not mind the pain.

I was just attached to you, and I yearned to
burn the ends of your neurons off
so that they would unravel into fraying strings,
which I could permanently interlace myself between.

I am done.
I am done.
I am done.

I am no longer intoxicated by the way
you never stay, nor invigorated
by the challenge of keeping you.
I do not want to play
in some sort of game for affection.
I will no longer jump for your attention.

All I ever did for you was fall, but a few days ago
I hit the ground, looked up, and saw that you
never
fall
for me at all.

I am becoming an entirely new me altogether,
and I will not take you back this time
because new me
knows better.

Soon, I will have two new lips that cannot describe
if yours taste more like
raspberry lemonade or cherry soda,
and I will have two new hands that claim
they have never ran their fingers
around the rough edges of yours before.