Stairs

Stairs

Most people look at me

 Seeing what they want to

              But I have secrets too, like

                Unopened boxes, dusty. I

          Always stuff them down stairs, until I

                                 have the muscle to bring them up

                                                  Sometimes people get a peak into my

                                                Unspoken, undealt with guilt and shame

                                                                If they pass by as I’m closing the door, but for the

                                                                 Most part, I just smile, slipping the key behind me.

                                                                      Someday, I’ll open up the biggest box of all, and all of the dust

                                                                       Will explode in my face, asking me why it’s been here so long,

But for now, I can keep my unwanted boxes down here, holding parts of me that aren’t meant for others to see. For now, I can just close the basement door shut, sigh, and put that key back into its spot, where it is constantly reminding me of that, which I have put aside into darkness. Maybe one day, you or someone will descend into this darkness, seeing what a collection of cardboard boxes I have. I have boxes big and small, full and nearly empty. However, each contains a part of me. Something that it embarrassing, humiliating, hurtful, or shameful, but nonetheless, a part of me. Coming down here is not a small task for me. I hear the begging and pleading of each box, begging me to release its contents, which are so determined to sever the box, if they need to.  So, for now, I’ll bring up a box that has been down there a long time, waiting. It is a sizable box, full and heavy. I have gathered the courage to slice open the seam, and I’m prepared for whatever rushes out at me.