
Like a child,
Picking
Its scab,
I pick apart
The layers
Of my life.
Buried
Under paper.
Locked,
Behind doors.
Brushing aside
The panic
And the prejudice.
Trying to reach
What’s important.
Not
That I linger.
For,
Predictably,
In that moment,
Just
As I have reached
The highest shelf;
Fingertips,
Tentatively pinching
My prize:
The whole closet
Quivers.
It trembles.
Its contents
Rain down
In confounding
Shovelfuls.
And here I am.
Buried.
Again.
Copyright 2019 Andrea LeDew
I know the feeling, both literally and metaphorically.