MySelf Cleaning

For once this isn't therapy,
it's documentation.
You form words into promises
and hand them to me freely,
claiming the past is sealed behind them.
I see that they are hollow now.
Plastic.
Temporary.
Breakable.
And what you actually do
when it comes time for those words
to be redeemed for truth
hasn't changed.
But what I see
(stepping out of your line of fire)
and my chosen acceptance of this
helps me tear myself from your claws
and run toward peace
when I used to wait until you'd left me
a dry carcass,
then roll myself into a bottomless grave.
You, with your self-indulgent tunnel-vision.
Refusal to cop to your own.
A vial of red-hot resentment
in every jacket and roadcase
(in case of emergency).
I am on the other side
of the detour you've insisted on.