melancholy galaxies

you speak so angrily, as though letting go is simply that: unclenching my fingers and dropping my hurt to my toes, as though i wouldn’t fling it like a frisbee if i could, but it just hooks into my palms like barb. and i dig and i pry to try and dislodge it, only to bleed repeatedly from spikes that stuck me ages ago. the past is in the past, you say, though these pricks make it feel permanent; there’s no future to face if everything feels like yesterday or years before. there’s no moving forward if my feet remain rooted in history, a history that’s starting to look less like a thing i can bottle up and more like a grave that you dug for us both; you climbed out and demand that i follow, but now i’m festering, alone.