although i have not kept count of the amount of people who have walked out of my life,

like a train leaving the station—fast, abrupt, all-at-once;

i have kept count of the words that follow.

i wrote four hundred and sixty three words that night.

after you walked out of the door for the last time and the pen

called me and i melted onto paper like wax.

and i want you to know—it felt good,

to lose myself in something besides you.

i want you to know—it feels good,

to be so powerful on my own.

my words could move mountains, if they wanted,

although i like them better tucked away on torn pages.

not because i am afraid to show the world

my letters—but because,

these words are mine.

they heal me;

they rid me from the taste of your lips, and to that—i owe them my life.

don’t underestimate my words; for they are all i know.