Boxes

I’ve decided to open all the little boxes,
not to catalogue them
not to count the wrongs and rights
and doesn’t matters, that fall out
But to hold them for one second,
Roll them around in my hand,
a cold marble memory, touched
by every line and crevasse in my skin
Some are old and scarred and sewn tightly in,
some dangerous to hold and may pour instead
running like blood from my eyes
streaking red black roads
down my immobile face
some feel like sickness, like dank dark
like moldy corpses left too long in hiding
I may vomit them out, all those words
all those things I leave out
all the things I left in, shoved in so deeply
Some are so much harder than you think
they are griefs set adrift, floating
moving just beyond the finger tips
they are the ebb and flow of sorrow,
they are the lost, and ones I would not find,
if choosing
I have never lost the rage of the past
only put it in a stronger box
and like the rest I will find it,
or it will find me,
In the effort to not direct it out
I will direct it in,
I have gone to great lengths to expand
all thresholds, to excavate the darkness,
create a world in which i can survive
Every little box holds me
Holds every secret, mundane, terrifying,
beautiful thing
There is no time left for holding on
It is time only to let go