this is a trick.
the ghosts of the past
are not gone.
sweeping smoke
beneath their doormats
whispering, "get in"
within their smiling teeth.
they are talking
to my rubber face.
happy to be learning to say no,
i can contentedly and stubbornly
say "are you crazy?"
and walk away.
this is something
i never would have been able
to do before.
i was never good at knowing
when indulgence
under the surface
was for pleasure
or to reverberate even further
into the echoes of pain.

notice the easy grace
in the red flag painted morning
warning some
of the coming rain.
tell them
i am typing this poem on a
phone screen
walking into a building
supposed to fill me with knowledge.
tell them
that some of these people
took in the lonely smoke
wandering around
in the night
looking for a warm mouth;
they are high today.
tell them
that some of them
don't need the bitter whip
of substance
to substitute for beauty.
tell them
i have walked away;
and let them know
that i
am the happiest that i have ever been.
                                ~