We wear our past like too tight sweaters.
We dance at parties, smiling large and bold
while our past hangs on our shoulders
showing stains and holes cut in tears.

I try to leave the house without them
but they chase me like
crazed liquored up weasels,
snapping at my heels,
spitting my own tears back at me.

We must come to terms with our past
transform it into our future,
twisting it like red licorice
grasped in little fingers turning and turning
it straight.