I put on the clothes I wore when you last touched me. I can feel your fingers tracing my body when I pull on those pink leggings-thin enough to feel like there was no barrier and your hands were on my skin. Although they've been washed since then, you linger as a thought-forever imbedded with its woven thread. There's a possibility your DNA still remains, through time, through wear, through water cycles.
I choke on the lies you told me. I drown in the tears trying to wash away the pain you caused.
I keep the evidence of all the things you did on my phone, in my words, alive in my friends.
You may not have been physically there for my death, but you still murdered me.