I store my past away in a box—
The thoughtful letters, decaying photos, old essays,
crinkled newspaper clippings,
the sweet wooden music box softly muted
All make their way inside.
I store my memories away in a box
In my mind.
As my thoughts run, I place them inside,
Every single one is shuffled along inside—
Sealed off with a tape of tears and relief.
Where I can occasionally visit them
But for the most part,
They are left alone.
In a box, tucked away.
They are always a part of me, living within me—
They just aren’t always reminding me of what happened.
Not always making me relive them.
Moving homes, moving cities,
Moving on.
Ribbons tying up—
Goodbyes into imperfect bows.
Means leaving behind parts of me, pieces of me.
Pieces of the past.
I can choose when to open the boxes.
And when to leave them -
alone.
But then Fortune strikes,
And
Everything
Escapes.