I unpack the boxes slowly,
they've been packed for years now,
I can't remember what's in them.
I have to take care,
not to cut myself on broken memories
or on the shattered dreams,
I didn't use enough bubble wrap
or tissue paper so when they fell
hard and fast.
They were sealed,
safe from the dust that should obscure them
stop them being pristine and promising,
instead they look like they did fifteen years ago,
ten years ago,
I unpack them slowly,
taking apart the barriers that protected
against the outside world.
I've caught my heart on pieces of them,
my hands on others
each painful reminder,
a reminder that I don't need the wall of memories any more.
When I unpack enough of them,
I'll wrap the ones that don't hurt,
and the new ones
in helium balloons, floating
joyful reminders of what makes me, me.