Spill

How much of you would it take to make me whole again, with only you inside me, with only you in the places she once claimed as hers? How much of you would it take to wash her scent from my skin, to carve her out of the memories she’s stitched into me, before you empty her out of me. How deep would you have to bury yourself in me to make sure she doesn’t claw her way back into the corners of my mind, where she still lingers, quietly, persistently? How many touches, how many words until the taste of her name is forgotten? Until I can close my eyes without seeing her face instead of yours? Tell me, how much of you would it take to empty me of her and leave me filled only with you? Will you have to pour yourself in until I am drowning in you, until every inch of me is soaked with your presence? I wonder if there’s enough of you to cleanse me of the past, or if I’m doomed to carry her with me forever— even as I try to make room for you. Maybe it’s selfish, but I want you to try. I want you to fill every part of me until there's no room left for her. And when you’re done, I'll still wonder— if there will be any of me left that you'd still want to hold?