Sometimes.

Sometimes.

I write down everything.

and I

I push it

to the very back of the attic of my mind.

and I leave them there.

long enough to gather dust.

Long enough.

That I can feel the moths fluttering around

and the old smell of smoldered thoughts lingers.

Sometimes when I feel brave enough

and sometimes when I feel

like I might just be
big enough this time.

I roll up my sleeves, and clear the cobwebs from my path.

And I climb the creaky stairs

to the attic of my mind.

And I tear open the boxes

and I flip through the pages

that document every stored thought

"Maybe if I had...."

"Why didn't you...?"

they fly around me

they bite and sting my skin like poisonous insects.

Every last bit of my composure

twists and chokes and bends til it breaks

and it scatters at my feet.

And everything inside of me is begging to just get away.

and I know then.

I'm far too small.

and I stumble back down

to safety.

and you must understand

how I don't want to talk about it.

you must understand

there are things that gnaw and claw and eat my heart up.

unless I keep them hidden between pages,

and boxed

safely in the deepest part of my memory.

Where I might not

stumble upon them accidentally.