I’m not angry.
Inside beyond the cobwebs
Lies a trunk of memories
Not the happy Christmases
Or jolly birthday parties.
I dare not open its lid
Else I find ripe bitterness.
Things from years as kids
Conversations, fight, bruises
Stuff from adulthood choices.
Not just these, but people too
Ones I care to forget.
I won’t open it—you
Can’t make me do it.
Someday—who knows—I’ll look inside
Crack the lid, to relive the past
But now the memories, the scars hide
In the locked, dusty trunk their cast
I have no more to say.
No. Nothing. That’s it.
Except perhaps this:
I am not angry.
