They flutter behind you your possible pasts
some bright-eyed and crazy some frightened and lost

Had I not erased a year in words, I'd be living in one possible past where I'd die. Of pain. Of being tired of being lost. Of being nothing but a memory, or a ghost, or a spirit. Awakened once in a while by some mystical incantation, to be used and then discarded. Put back in its vaporous box up in the attic of some stranger's good conscience.

I don't want to forget the possibilities ever. Not where I was headed, not where I wanted to be or go. Not the words, not the carvings on my skin, so tired and hurt already. And every time history will want to rewrite itself, I'll stick a finger in one of my freshest, deepest wounds.

Do you remember me, how we used to be? Do you think we should be closer?

Everything has a purpose. I've said this many times, meaning every word deeply. Every bad move, every mistake. To escape a possible past that I wouldn't want to live with. But ended up carrying on my back anyway, because it had a purpose. 

But as my shoulders straighten, as my eyes open, as I make my way towards a path I haven't walked yet, the load gets lighter, the purpose finally guiding my steps. Next one will be different. Not better nor worse. A possible past, a purpose.