I’m always terrified my baggage is what will take down the plane,
The only means I have to travel somewhere new.
I’ve always been this way.
A hoarder. Sentimental.
The one who still has macaroni art from when she was five,
And her science fair award when she was ten,
Because I love to remember.
I love to remember who I was
And how I got here.
So it’s not surprise that
I keep all of you somewhere in the attic.
Snapshots of smiles after a long night,
Quotes burned in my brain from your own stories.
Compliments from past loves,
Melodies of music you were passionate about.
Mental scrapbooks filled with memories that
Do me no good,
But I can’t seem to throw them out.
I always say I’m ready for a fresh start,
A clean slate, but every time I bring
My bags to the counter,
They tell me it’s too much,
That I have to leave it behind.
But I can’t do it.
White knuckles and a death grip
Over a past I’m not proud of.
Yet I always say I want to be rid of you.