It wasn’t that I missed them.

It wasn’t that I wanted them to

cluster my mind like an angry

swarm of bees dive bombs their

aggressor.

Saying I missed them would be

like saying you missed the oxygen

you’re required to breathe, or

missing the needle in your arm

that soothed the shaking.

You don’t miss them,

you need them.

You try to brush and contain

and cover and keep them down

and away and distant from yourself.

But just like old you and young you are the

same you, so are they, so are those

dark memories;

They’re you.

They cling to you like a lost

passenger clings to the slabs of a broken ship,

while they simultaneously lurk under

you like blood-driven sharks

prowl beneath the black, choppy water.

And all you want is for them to stop.

So you scream and beg and pray for

them to subside, but no matter how

many times you try to slam the door

and lock them out, they always

seep under the cracks, closing in

around you until they fill every escape.