There are ghosts from my pasts everywhere I turn. They litter the cutting room floor. I try to pretend not to see them, but I always know they’re there. I can feel them. Their presence is so pressing, it’s sometimes hard to breathe. My breathing gets harder, heavier, so I take slower breaths. They take up space in the path ahead of me, so I weave my way around them. I pay them no mind, but they scream and beg for my attention. But I live on, and I refuse to let them drag me down.