Can you fit into a black backpack?

I wrote this when accidentally high off of different cold medications. This poem stems from many different things; my love for my black backpack, talking in my sleep about filing things, being asked to write about a "first," thinking of how the brain copes with things that are too horrible to process and my wonderment of how people are able to live their life after trauma.
I won't bore you with the meaning and symbolism because I could go on and on.
This is not everyone's cup of tea, it's not necessarily even mine.