The Things I Carry
I carry a ripped and broken suitcase.
Its dragged alongside me through all my travels and moves.
I suppose it carries my life and history inside of it.
Within it, I carry a stuffed golden dog named “Lilly”.
The dog with the button nose and browning fur.
The dog that was my safety net as a child.
I carry the photostrips of past friendships.
I look into their smiling faces and remember who they used to be.
I remember who I used to be.
I carry two bottles of useless pain killers.
They are more for the relief of hoping the pain goes away,
Than for the actual pain that haunts me.
I carry the tags of my lost dog on a keychain.
His name “Joey” engraved on a dull red heart.
A twine string looped through the tag for safety.
I carry a sketchbook that is rarely opened.
The drawings are too dark for most and hold meanings I don’t want to share.
Only twenty pages are full from four years of pencil smudged fingers.
I carry a diary from my childhood.
I look at the sloppy script of a little girls writing.
It’s to remember where I came from and why I’m here today.
I carry novels with broken spines and dog eared pages.
As I child I was told I shared so many stories, yet none were my own.
I liked to live a life that wasn’t mine within these words.
I carry folded notes that were left in my lockers.
Some are full of frilly words covered in heart-dotted i’s.
Others cut deep with slashes of anger and hatred inside.
I carry things that once had made an impact on my life.
What some people see as useless junk or childhood memorabilia.
I see as the growth I’ve made and different lives I have lived.