Often it feels as if the past
is a desperate, dying dog, its
teeth stuck on the hems of my
jeans, beady eyes intent on
dragging me back to darker times

This feral beast will scrounge up
my hope with a wag of the tail,
drawing me closer so it can bury its
diseased claws within me, taking blood

I want nothing more than to put a
bullet in its ragged face, but that power
is not innate