They say within roughly seven years time
The body rids every single cell and rebuilds itself once again.
So I suppose my skin is finally clear from the hands that marked it.
From the hands that caused more wounds than the blades I’ve ever used on myself.
And I don’t know if that’s comforting or terrifying.
Because my new body may not recognise those fingerprints,
But it will cling onto the damage that remembering them does.
If only my mind could rid every single thought too.
I am bruised but not from punches,
I am left black and blue by trying to forget,
And failing every night
So I look into the bathroom mirror
And I’m ashamed at the new cells looking back.
Because even in this reborn body,
I am never free from the fingerprints.