Old Scars

I want to stop writing about my past, but what else do I have?

Everyone is gone and I'm still here trying to sort out what happened.
The few people I cling to now are hours and cities and states away.
So I sit in an empty backyard and hold my battered heart in my hands and all I see is my past.
The heartaches.  The traumas.  The people who might have been good for me if I hadn't let them go.
All I see is myself at fifteen taking one wrong step that send me tumbling down a flight of figurative stairs for the next seven years.  Now, the falling has stopped and everyone and everything is gone.  I was left at the bottom, broken, with a head full of stories and words that I use to medicate the pain.
I guess I'm still there, at the bottom of the stairs, but I don't know what the next move is.
Move out? but where would I go?
Fall in love? but with who? who would want all of this?
Be happy? but how? how do I even begin that process?
I don't know.  I don't know the answers to any of it.

Instead, I sit in solitude and pull at old scars and stitches until they bleed out onto the paper and leave me empty again.