the gentle hand that
     guides you into the rut
     pushes you into the bottomless pit 

crushes you in a fist made from the petty gravity
     of circumstance and long-dead decisions

chains you to the ideas and tyranny
     of the stranger who wore your young flesh

oh the undead past
     overdue for exorcism
     deserving of a posthumous stake in the heart

the monster you hate in the daylight
but allow it to seduce you at night
     and curse it while you lay safe in its claws

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