The Past Is Always

I love, hate, betray and leave a man. I sift through the garbage that accumulated in my head, during the decade I was with a man and also during all the minutes, all the days, months, and years that came after.

I throw a plate down the basement steps, and when the thing bounces instead of shattering into a million pieces, I become angry for the rest of my life.

I think about walking into traffic at the same time that I think about not walking into traffic.

I drink a little, smoke a little, look out the window and understand that I don’t think I know who I am anymore.

I tell my love I’m thinking about quitting my therapist. I tell my therapist I’m thinking about quitting my love.

I know that I’m still lying to myself about something. I don’t know what.

I move to a city in the corner of the country farthest from where the bad things took place, and I give myself another name.

I miss my own name. I miss a lot of things.

I feel the ghost of all the things I miss ever present over my shoulder, its steps in sync with mine, its only motivation to be wherever I am.

 

 

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