I didn't hate her.

Or did I? Did I find everything she was detestable, did I want her so far removed from my life that I could forget? Or did I just hate the circumstances surrounding her?

Have I done my best to erase her fingerprints from my home, my memories, my body? Could I have done more? Should I do more? Surely there are more things to drive out, to scatter beans after so they can never cross my threshold again. More memories to find and cut out, plucking each splinter out so that there remains nothing but a scab that can finally heal.

Or is it that it no longer matters that much to me, the remaining shards long-since buried in graves with no markers, the locations lost to every part of my heart.