Past Lives

I hurt for every iteration of me that has passed.

Today, by the fireplace,

isolated and lonely.

A week ago, in the car,

my darling girl cried and cried.

Two months ago, on the concrete,

tears fell from her smoke-filled eyes.

I mourn for my past,

but I feel nothing for myself.

I belittle me, belittle her,

and every she I have ever been.