Container of Memories

At the end of the day, war torn and worn,
all I want to do is devour myself in blankets,
hide out from the world.

Instead, I find me laying on my bedroom floor,
eyes trapped on the blue gray ceiling above
just breathing and taking in the day.

Everyday is a new battle, a new strategy
to get through. Tonight, I am brought back
to a childhood where my room was my prison.

Banished multiple times, left in solitude
to calm my body. At 6, I remember
sobbing against my tall white dresser.

At 8, I know the times when Oreo
would nuzzle her nose into the crack of my door,
stroll right in and let me hug her.

I was 11 when my Dad came in and woke me up
with news of my uncle's death. Merely 12
when I changed schools and left familiarity behind.

13 was when the bullying got the worst
and the floor became my best friend.
15 was the summer of my first boyfriend

and the accident that changed us all.
It took me awhile to find myself again,
16 to be exact. But that was taken away too soon

when Grandpa left us for heaven. I laid on that carpet,
the beige shag catching every bit of dirt,
letting my tears soak into the carpet.

I thought I left the tears and the toxic boyfriends
behind when I left for college at 18.
But I didn't right away.

It took me until 19 when I could finally
lay on the carpet, looking up on the dots
on the ceiling and be ok.

No more tears came. No more hardship.
At 20, I had finally found a place
that was a container of memories, not a prison.