I can't help but be introspective as I lay among the boxes and the stillness.
Sleeping down here is like visiting the back of my mind.
Down here,
it's cold, cluttered, and filled with memories,
memories of things and people that used to live here,
Boxes lie everywhere,
the floor is stone cold,
and the ceiling's unfinished.
But I'll always carry baggage,
won't I?
Memories of him and 20 others
who've each scarred me in a different way.
But never mind that now--
I've packed that hurt away,
and shoved it into the darkest corner,
and hoped that I'll never be tempted to peak inside again.
Because I'm so done with pain,
so done with pity-parties,
so done with living in the past,
and the sight of him causing my heart to bleed again.
So, for now,
I'll turn my back on my past,
head up the stairs and slowly lock the door--
maybe I'll come back down and open up those memories again,
after the pain and the hurt's as faded as an old photograph.
Someday.
