There is a rule about the past,
You must acknowledge it and accept it before we move on,
And you must understand that it doesn’t care about you.
You can always go back, but it will not be meant for you.
New tire swing sets that reeked of rubber and imagination
No longer fit the heaviness you carry
You can go back, but it sits there worn out and unused
Hanging by the tethered, moldy rope.
The choruses of your favorite song from when you were
Thirteen and too dumb to give up just yet
But too self-aware to not try
Are not meant for you now,
You can listen, you can picture the cushion in the corner
Of your favorite teacher’s classroom and how
It supported your weight then
You can go back, but it’s lying to you now.
You can go back to your mother’s arms, but she is small
Smaller than she used to be, taking up less space
In your life than you remember she did
When you stumbled and cried and wept
In her arms,
You remember her hair used to flutter in the sky
And she brushed the eyelashes glued to your cheeks
By your own mishaps, and rocked you
You can go back, you can go back to her arms
But you will be the one holding up her weight.
This rule is the hardest you will ever face,
And it will never change, and it knows this,
And it will never care as much about you, as you
Care about it.