The past sits in front of me

in an old, battered trunk

that I have dragged around

these many years

I rarely take it out of the attic

It is dusty

makes me sneeze

Multiple padlocks and straps keep the lid

securely in place

 

Opening this trunk

requires preparation

I like to have a chair and a lion tamer’s whip

nearby

just in case

Butterfly net and a lidded glass jar or two

are also helpful

You never know what’s going to try

to escape

A box of Kleenex and chocolate are

also standard supplies

 

The key ring is large

jangling with skeleton keys

for outside and inner locks

There are other locked boxes inside the trunk

where my history lies neatly separated

There are times

when the past does not want to stay neatly

in just one box

or another

I cut these in pieces dispassionately

and divide them

I am good with sharp objects

 

The keys are always worn on my person

a heavy weight I have learned to ignore

tune out

much like the ferocious contents of the trunk itself

I know that it is time to start the unpacking

The past is already leaking out of keyholes

out of cracks in the well-worn leather

 

The past holds the potential to ensnare me

leaving me trapped  in place

Its long sharp pointed metal teeth

cutting through flesh

drawing blood 

puncturing my bones

creating shards that pierce me through

Too isolated to call out for help

which I  probably wouldn’t do

anyway

I do not want to have to gnaw

through my own flesh

to break free  of my past

again

I bear enough scars

already

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved