The final stage of grief: acceptance.

You don't get to be the subject of my poems anymore.

I’m disgusted at the thought of ever having loved you. 
You move about the world as if you're some sophisticated relic from a time long past, a boy in tailored suits that you still drown in, hair slicked back like the Outsiders kid you wish you were. 
You robbed me of my wide-eyed years, and turned me into a shadow, with my hair falling out and my knees bruised from too many nights on wooden floors, fingers clasped, praying to God to give you back.