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.