Not My Own

Sutter Home bottles littered
my counter, my floor.
Toss one in the bin,
hear the glass on glass
sound as it clangs
against yet another.
I see those bottles
now in places
not my own
and it takes me back
to all those mornings after
which you forced upon me,
which I called my fate
for choices made that
I wish were
not my own.
You built your burden
brick by brick
upon my back,
shoved your sullied sins
into my senseless soul,
turned my days to gray
with your teeming transgressions,
always red-faced for reasons
not my own.
That was then
and is no more…
broke your burden off my back,
set myself free from your sins,
my days now yellow and pink and purple
orange, too, especially orange.
The bottles I will still sometimes see
in places
not my own
and one day that will be okay
as my life continues to become
my own.

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