I want to scrub my skin until every cell you have touched is dead. I want new eyes, ones that you’ve never stared into. I want my lips, small but there, to shed their top layer of skin so I can say they have never touched yours. I want my freckles to rearrange themselves so you can no longer say you know my body. I want my house to go up in flames only to be rebuild, because every fucking time I step inside my room, I see you and I am tangled in my sheets like it’s the last time our bodies would ever touch. I want you gone. I want you off of me and out of every memory I have because this is killing me and you’re still breathing.