I have been told
To let it go
As if my past
Is something I'm hanging on to.
They got it wrong.
If my past could be
Thrown against rocks,
Against bricks and shattered
And disposed of,
That'd be okay with me.
Instead, it sticks
Like honey or glue
That covers clawed hands
Gnarled and grabbing.
It is a thing alive
And breathing and fighting.
A parasite and I am its host.
I'm not hanging on to my past.
It's hanging on to me.