The speaker is trying to escape someone who hurt them, and keeps finding that every way out is blocked by memory. They know the address, the town's streets, the phone number by heart. Deleting photos, blocking a number, or drinking doesn't erase any of it. Moving thousands of miles wouldn't either, because the knowledge travels with them.
Then the poem turns darker and more physical. The lines about hands around the throat and a body held down suggest sexual violence, though the poem never names it outright. The speaker counts down the days until their skin cells have replaced themselves, yet the idea gives little comfort: "you're still here." Dyeing hair or covering the body in tattoos feels pointless, since the person remains underneath.
The mood is exhausted, bleak, and trapped. The plain, repetitive "i can... but i still" phrasing reads like someone going in circles, running out of options, and sounding numb.