I took my memories of marriage
put them in a box,
labeled it trauma
and thought that was the end of it.
I boxed up
the scars of a life unloved,
the nights alone in bed,
grateful for the solitude.
I boxed up
rage at spilled coffee on beige carpets,
judgement of mismanagement of her needs
dismissal of my own.
I boxed up
years of broken promises,
yeses and of courses meant to placate,
and the hollow in my chest when I recognized them as such.
Versions of myself I'd thought I'd drowned
in an ocean of my own making
are stayed in the corner, drip-drying,
squeezing endless waves of salt water tears from their hair.
And they are pissed.
We are pissed.
I chose compassion.
I chose kindness.
I chose to be relieved that I'd survived.
Now I am furious that I had to.
I took a box,
marked it abuse
and placed my marriage inside it.
I covered it in the adventure of a new person,
the softness of his skin,
the warmth of his touch,
the ripple of his laughter.
And then,
just as delicately as ever,
he held me and said
"The box is still there. And I can't stay any longer."
And now all that is left
sits untouched,
uncategorized,
unprocessed,
waiting for me to tear into it,
gut it,
and when it neatly rearranged, light the fucker on fire.
I took my marriage,
put it in a box,
called it what it was,
and buried it.
And now I can see
because I've seen what kindness is,
and I refuse to accept less any longer
I buried the wrong shit.
