TO BE MADE PURE

It is written somewhere that every cell in the human body is replaced every seven years. This is the science of forgiveness. Call it biological warfare, divine intervention, whatever language best translates to second chance. I’ll be as new as God’s first-ever Sunday morning. A fresh grape still unplucked from the vine. I’ll shake hands with Past and call a truce. It’s okay. You didn’t take everything from me after all. One day I’ll stand in new skin and forget how you trespassed the one I shed away. I’ll bask it in moonlight and the right love and kisses that don’t leave bruises. I’ll replace shower tears with singing you can hear echoing in another dimension. Body will no longer correspond to things you stole or what I keep secret. Body will mean mine. Will mean loving the atoms of something entirely my own. I’ll finally have blood that has never shed for you. Bones that have never threatened to fracture under the pressure of fighting to stay whole. I’ll grow flowers in the apples of my cheeks only the worthy will ever get to taste. Seven years. That’s all it will take to be me again.

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