The truth is,

I used to worry all of the time.

It crippled me, deformed me, wore me away

until there was nothing left.

I wasn’t pretty enough, I was fat, I was stupid

I was the thing on the shelf you settled for marked down to clearance.

 

The truth is

that person is gone

I haunt her bones

leave her flowers

because no one else does.

 

The truth is

this clock in my chest

doesn’t mark time for you or her or him.

 

It’s mine now.

Each minute

Carved into my bones

with determination.