The door

He is blunt

and his words are hurtfull

I would love to deny them

but he is…damn him! right.

I walk around pretending

conjuring bullshit in my head

Convincing myself that my past is dead.

But it’s not.

At least, not like it should be.

I created this room –

a wretched , horrid place

with birds, pictures and ghosts

I shoved inside there things

I hated the most.

And I lost

The key

The will

The courage

to face that creepy crap.

I am a great convincer

I forced myself

to forget about that.

What a surprise

one day the door cracked

and that hideous lot

roared: escape me not!

“What a shitstorm!” I thought

and run

Till I could

and I would have escaped

If it wouldn’t been late

And I wasn’t aware

That this crazed stare

is my own.

So I have manned up

and gave them a slap.

It worked, as splendidly

As you can already guess

My past was alive

and my confidence was dead.

It became uncomfortable

It’s shameful and complicated

But I dedicated

A decade to hide my monsters

and they have grown.

“What a shitstorm.” I thought

and walked inside

The door.

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