i buckle before your past
as it rises to the surface
like oil, sticky
dirty
poison.

now you are something else
as you predicted you would be
what feels like so long ago
and what i am struck by is
how different all this reality is.

you are the papercut
from the turning of the page
inevitable, necessary
clumsy, painful
invisible, niggling
sharp.

sometimes
i think i could walk for miles
to leave myself behind.