reading the labels

There are some things so concealed, handled with the utmost care. Kept tuck away and oddly treasured. So despised yet so preserved.

Treated, washed, dried, folded and gently place inside a box, inside a closet, inside a room.
Taking up more space than you ever planned on granting it. Hurts, fears, failures, whatever they are have expanded to a disease that's set to contaminate everything. We swear to keep them at bay but when we grant them fresh air it’s under false pretense; not only lying to everyone else but to ourselves, for ourselves.

The surprise, the pity, all of it so well timed. Only a fool would believe in it’s innocence.
Nevertheless we feel that force to treat, wash, dry, fold and gently place inside a box, inside a closet, inside a room.

These secrets, that are anything but, don’t deserve this level of concern. They aren’t worthy of protection. I repeat this like a mantra. I want to walk away from it, exposing it to the elements in turn destroying it and freeing myself. Sometimes that seems too simplistic or beyond what my strength can undergo so then I think I’ll just burn the box, that will burn the closet, that will burn the room… but would it damage the rest of the structure?

Why such extreme measures to relinquish something that I’m responsible for? I alone have nurtured these wounds, reclaiming control shouldn’t be this debatable. I’m not fighting with it, I’m only fighting with myself.