Box

 

On the floor

of the reddish room

sits a smallish box

where forgets are kept.

Where regrets are swept.

Where the last crumbs

of "what ifs" are shoved.

Rumors fly

that the box must stay hid,

the insides under a tight lid

to hide our shame.

We embrace the lie that 

a perfect life means 

the box stays emptyish.

Which is incorrectish.

This life

cannot be lived

unless we fill the box,

fill the box,

fill the box,

unless we sometimes spill the box

to run trembling fingers

through the painful treasures inside.

Leave the room open wide.