Thirty four times,
I’ve been tortured,
Stockholm syndrome,
grateful Gitmo girl,
taping up my sanity,
until the twenty fifth,
when I say to myself,
“Surely, today.”
Appropriate amnesia,
I forget,
under the new moon,
the promises we made,
maybe they’re just things that people say,
when they’re infatuated.
Once upon a time,
you told me,
I’d never be alone again,
and I can’t say that you lied,
because I never let you go.
I never let you go,
I never let myself leave,
I never let myself believe that endings exist.
