They say your cells turn over every seven years
so that, technically, you are a different organism
from the one you started out as.
(I read that’s not exactly true,
as some cells stay the same,
but let’s not quibble.)
That means that today I am
a different person from the one
who lost you seven years ago.
But I don’t need whimsical science to tell me that.
The person I was, died that day.
Oh, maybe not at once, from the shock.
That would have been too clean, too merciful.
But I killed her over many nights,
when she just wouldn’t shut up.
She was one long scream in my head,
blaming me, despising me, inconsolable.
It was either her or me, you see.
I wish she had won.
