When I see you again, I will turn away, to forget. 

Ashamed I ever hoped to care for you when you didn’t care for me.

If I ever see you, I’ll ignore that I unwillingly remember 

the tattoos on your arms, the smell of your clothes before 

they hit the floor, your skin on mine, the sound of your voice, 

the way you had some semblance of chivalry 

when you couldn’t be bothered to see me. 

When I see pictures from then, I see that pitiful shell I became so quickly.

My smile bares no teeth, no crease by my eyes, or light left inside. 

I let everything fall out of my mouth like stomach acid 

to satisfy your nonexistent curiosity.

When I see my friends, the ones who stayed, I’m nothing but grateful 

and in awe of their beauty. Goddesses who bless those who are drowning 

with a helping hand, warm hugs, the kindest eyes, hopeful words, 

and fulfilled promises of connection.

Beauty within being open in every way, they see me while I see them. 

I hope to God that I never forget their unparalleled, beautiful souls.

So, if I ever see you again, I will pretend that you are no one 

and always have been. That I don’t miss compromising on content 

and bargaining for companionship. That I’m better off alone at night 

than held by someone so careless with my vulnerability.

If I see you again, I’ll be nothing but the stranger you’d refused to know 

when I exposed myself to you. So please, 

when you see me, just forget and walk away again.

When I see myself in the mirror today, I’ll accept that my bed is empty.

I’ll see myself again, with my smile that’s all teeth eyes squinted shut, 

with those who remember me--who see me--

who treat me like I am just as beautiful and worthy as they are.

When I see myself today, I’ll see myself whole again. 

Not lost. Not an empty shell. Not forgotten.