A shell that contains all of my
insecurities, wrong-doings, and outright failures.
I packed it away,
ready to move it out of my mind.
The box that holds it bows
under the weight of this tiny,
ornament-like shell;
I can't pick it up anymore.
Instead I push it into
a dark corner in my brain,
burying it under box after box of
empty thoughts and false hope and
broken memories and completely justified
hatred that I don't want to fuel anymore;
that I don't want to
feed off of me anymore.
I build a door with three locks
to keep the boxes at bay.
But they still make me feel heavy
and sick to my stomach at times;
the ceiling swaps roles with the floor
so now I'm unsure where I stand.
Never able to tell the highs from the lows,
I try to remain exactly where the middle may be.
