my past feels more like wreckage 

and despite how they commend the survivor, 

i feel more like remnants to scour. 

my past feels like a crash site 

and although it’s been years

since the most recent collision, 

i’m still writhing in the street 

waiting for paramedics to save me, 

but perhaps they couldn’t 

and i am the ghost 

and the past is my grave, 

or perhaps it’s the ghoul 

feasting upon where i lay. 

but surely death isn’t like dying, 

again and again, day after day;

if i’m merely a corpse, 

where is the peace i am promised 

once i rest in a cemetery?

and if i’m still above ground

and the past is just that,

then, i hope i may rest 

in a bearable future, in a pleasant home, 

before my bed becomes a casket

and my headboard becomes a headstone.