Ghosts sitting on the trunk of
a sea foam green car
smoking Marlboro golds,
their teeth gnashing at
carcinogenic tips.

Discussing tastes.
Aesthetic pleasure.

The past can't haunt you anymore.

She said, "we all wish to take a scalpel to
our past.
It's like a sore muscle and you need to
stretch it out."

This repressed everything, and
enforced amnesia; more complex
than conspiracy or tacit reality,
because

you're not supposed to hold on
to something that hurts you.

This house in on fire,
not home, house,
and I'm leaving,
and I've taken what I want.
I'm escaping.

She asks if I'd want to know.

I wake up missing something,
and missing a past.
I don't mind
the weightlessness.
This is how I will live now.