tree names

me, standing in a room, surrounded by boxes.

each box has a lock.

home to a series of event grouped together by time. my memories.

some are shut with luggage locks, easy to pry. others need combinations to be released, the rare few have more than one. most I let out sometimes, when I smell a certain smell or hear a string of notes. 

but there are a handful, just a few, that hide in the shadows behind all the other boxes held shut by deadlocks and duck tape, all the edges glued. these memories are meant to die inside, locked away.

I put them there.

but this morning, someone let them out.

and I remembering things I thought I swallowed deep inside, like the color of your shorts and the jokes we made in pain. the yellow school bus pulling up and six days later pulling away. I’m remembering the blueberry, the pancakes, the earth brown of the mugs. The words of songs I thought I forgot, the red of my blood on my hand, your grey hood, the movie in front the horse the sun. I try and slam the locker shut, I reach for the tape but suddenly everything is soaking wet, wet like the clear blue water we swam in that summer and I can’t I can’t I can’t breathe I forgot how to swim the walls are closing in.

And admist it all a small part of me tries to find reason. why did the lock break now when I worked so long to snap it shut?

What does it mean?

How I have moved forward with two of them when I locked our beginning away?

The questions are meant to make sense 

But you can’t question without air

And I’m on the middle of drowning.


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