They follow me, those snakes.

Why is it that pasts are so vital to who we are but so harmful to who we could be?

How is it that they work they way into new beautiful things, wrap themselves around them, and squeeze until their is no sign of life?

Dark, and slithery like snakes we breed in darker parts of our minds.

Eating every last thing we fill ourselves with until the emptiness finds its way home again.

 

 

And them we push, and pull, and fight to untangle all the mangled rubble left over

but all there is, is snakes.

 

Where did that happiness go

Why would they do this

 

Snakes

and old lovers

 

Snakes

and lost chances

 

Snakes

and nostalgia

 

Snakes

and scars

 

Snakes

and pasts

 

Filthy pasts

 Filthy Snakes.