They always told me to let go of the past.
As if it were at the end of a taut rope,
as if my memories were burns on my hands,
as if my tears were simply sweat of exertion.

"It'd all go away if you'd just let go,"
They assure me in their uninterested gaze,
Scoffing at me in their self-assurance
"She's probably just thinking too much."

Surprisingly, though, on a long drive to nowhere
A monstrous plume of smoke caught my eye
glowing hellish and orange in a grey night
billowing from a crevice somewhere downtown.

It occurred to me then that I was afraid.
If I let the rope slip, even just a little,
whipping through my hands, setting them aflame,
I'd crumble to ashes then and there.

Without the distant past, the rosy memories,
the hot-aired idea of who I was
The self-inflicted punishment for past wrongs,
Who the hell am I?