Patched up

Do not see me as what you want me to be,
The girl who fought for empty words is long gone.
Never forget the distinctive smell I left on your pillow,
Because I shall never rest my head there anymore.
During the dreadful hours of the morning,
Do not let your fingers search
For a figure that used to be there;
For old habits die hard
And killing it would mean agony
To that secondhand heart of yours.
I do not wish to see you cry,
Nor call my name anymore.
The space I left at the dining table,
And the gap between the door.
Never ask yourself questions
That can never be answered still;
For moving on and letting go,
Are all against your solid will.
Keep my favorite sweater last winter,
Locked up at the bottom-right drawer;
Be the person you were supposed to be,
Before life patched me up and made me into me.

***