Stupid Hissing

It’s not even the start
And I can already feel the cold hand of the past
On my shoulder.

Whispering in my ear
A voice which is all hissy
And persuasive
And stupid.

I like your hands.
I don’t want them to be on anyone else’s neck
Or thigh.

Or your lips
To be pressed deliciously
Anywhere
But on my skin and lips.

“Hissy-hiss-other-women”,
The voice blathers on.

I suppose that’s what they mean by
Baggage.