The Past


I’m not angry.

Inside beyond the cobwebs

Lies a trunk of memories

Not the happy Christmases

Or jolly birthday parties.

I dare not open its lid

Else I find ripe bitterness.

Things from years as kids

Conversations, fight, bruises

Stuff from adulthood choices.

Not just these, but people too

Ones I care to forget.

I won’t open it—you

Can’t make me do it.

Someday—who knows—I’ll look inside

Crack the lid, to relive the past

But now the memories, the scars hide

In the locked, dusty trunk their cast

I have no more to say.

No. Nothing. That’s it.

Except perhaps this:

I am not angry.

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