The Exhibition of Autobiography

I put history in a cabinet where it can do the least
damage. I make sure to buff it from time
to time. It won’t do for it to be

less than glamorous. We keep paying for it. Maybe
this is why it lives. I am obsessed with the past
the same way a victim

is obsessed with their killer, not their body
but the origin story, the motive where
the end began. In a dream

I explain this to my mother as I throttle
her neck, and she smiles. Finally,
we are a family. I won’t say

when I let go, only that I don’t know how
to look to a future I am certain
doesn’t include me.

Everything is changing now that I am in love.
I’m still here, still sworn to sorrow’s geas,
but the exit has inched closer.

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