I MISS THE PAST

I miss the past.
That’s a lie.
A lazy one.
The kind you tell when healing sounds too soft
for what you survived.

Why would I miss it?
Why would I miss fear sitting in my throat
like it owned the place?
The way I watched my words
before they left my mouth
because Mom might hear,
and silence felt safer than honesty.

Why would I miss my aunt’s hands
teaching lessons pain had no right to teach?
Or my math teacher who confused authority
with cruelty?

Why would I miss asking for everything
food, permission, love. 
already knowing the answer
was probably no,
or worse, nothing at all?

Tell me, 
how do you miss a home
that held its breath
until Dad came back drunk,
where the door opening meant
someone was about to pay
for existing too loudly?

How do you miss that?

How do you miss a childhood
where you are young
meant you don’t get a choice,
where yesterday and the day before
were just the same nightmare
wearing different dates?

How do I miss that
when the present feels like oxygen?
When I have my own money.
When my body is finally mine.
When I don’t have to stretch one pad
across two days
and call it strength?

How do I miss the past
when this side of life
is greener, quieter,
and doesn’t flinch at footsteps?

So no.
I don’t miss the past.
I lied.