How long does it take to count to infinity?

Poem from my upcoming book Letters I Never Sent

That’s how long I’ve been holding my breath,
waiting for an apology that will never come.

At first, it was your hands—tight around my throat,
squeezing the air out of my lungs, slowly.
But somewhere along the line,
I took over the job.
I started cutting off my own oxygen,
punishing myself with silence, with hope.

They don’t tell you about this part—
the stage after someone moves on,
when you’re still tied to the ghost of them,
wondering if forgiveness is something you want
from them,
or for you.
Is an apology a ritual?
A sacrament?
A magic key that frees you
from the cage they left you in?

I keep sucking in air and chewing on myself,
devouring my own insides in the dark.
I’m feasting on my ribs,
gnawing at my gut,
trying to make it to my heart—
hoping that if I eat through enough layers,
somewhere inside, I’ll hear your voice
whisper “I’m sorry.”

But I’ve decided to stop waiting.

I exhale.
A long, guttural sigh.
A letting go.

Because I no longer need those words.
Because silence can’t hold me hostage anymore.
Because my breath is mine again.
And this time,
I choose to use it
to speak, to sing, to scream—
to return to the woman that is erotically alive.