Torture or Therapy?

May 25, 2011
Rotting in the back of your closet
Are boxes sealed shut.

Though thoughts of them have always seemed to linger,
You’ve managed keeping most of them in the dark.

But installed in his throne
With his ballpoint and notepad binded to his hands
He waits.

Anticipating for you to dig into the closet
Drag out a box
Tear off the duct tape
And lay its contents all out on the table.

Each box one by one must be ripped apart.

You use all your strength to try and keep them shut
Until you become weak
No longer able to hold the box flaps down
And everything just pours out
Running down your cheeks

You itch to seal up the boxes
Throw everything into them
And toss them back into your closet

But it’s too late,
You can’t hide them anymore
They’ve been hidden much too long

You’re being forced to deal with them.

Now the scars reopen into bleeding cuts
Playing like a movie behind your eyes
You relive the pain

The harsh screams
The taste of tears
And touches both soft and violent
Are still so real.

When that movie stops
You realize he’s only trying to help
And you need it

Soon you’ll be able to see the boxes out in the open
And walk by them without cringing or crying.

They don’t control you.

They’ll never be able to hurt you again.

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