The box under the bed

I sit typing

on my computer

ignoring

what i really

want to do.

I want 

to look

in that box.

But I will

not allow

myself

to do it.

The box is the

past.

The things

that used to

be me.

The memories 

so painful

I had to take

them from 

my heart and put

them in a box.

I shut it and have

not looked at 

it.

But for some reason

I do.

I want to look at it.

Why?

What is inside

that box does not

define me.

Or does it?

I continue to

type ignoring it.

until...

I get down

on my knees

and pull the box from

under the bed.

I put my hands

on it.

Will I open it?

my heart is racing.

my hands

gently push it

under the bed.

Not tonight.

I know what is

in it.

It is full

of mistakes.

Full of hurt.

Full of regret.

I sit back in my

chair.

There is no need

to open it.

That box was my life.

and now,

It simply is the past.