In My Head

Past

It can be like a bucket filled to the brim.

Mine is.

Mine is full of memories.

Hurt, sorrow, pain

But mostly joy

This bucket I carry

Never have I set it down

Never have I not looked within it

And cringed playfully

Or cried loudly

Or shuttered with anger

Always dragging it along

But by the same token it can be a monster

One under the bed.

One that stalks you.

One that is dark and scary.

One that will pull your arm and drag you in the depths of a dead and gone private Hell.

One that will consume you and force you to waste days away sitting, simmering, dwelling in Hell

But that Hell is gone,

Yet not a day passes when your not there burning

Not a day passes when the monster doesn't summon you

When it doesn't drag you against your will

When it doesn't force to do the walk of shame

When it doesn't send you to a shaming mirror image

When it doesn't deface you and all you stand for

It makes you forget

Regret

And feel pain

But the same to the bucket.

Each day you look in it.

Each day you see what is there.

You see joy, but it sinks to the bottom.

No, that is gone.

Joy is gone.

You only see the grime that resides in the shallow waters of the bucket.

You drown yourself it.

Sticking your head under, but never coming up.

It's become a routine.

Looking into that bucket and nearly drowning.

It's become a habit.

The monster doesn't take you against your will, you because if habit.

You've made a habit out of killing yourself slowly.

But how do you stop the monster or put down the bucket?

Kick the bucket?

No.

Kill the monster?

No.

You look for a sponge.

One that will soak up plenty.

Soak all the buckets filthy water

All the monsters tainted blood.

Take it in.

All the misery and pain and embarrassing moments

All the grudges

All the bad even some good.

Take it in the sponge.

Then press on it.

Let the inside pour out.

Let the sun evaporate them.

Let it go.

What remains is a lighter bucket to carry.

A weaker monster to fight off.

What remains is all you need.

You'll know what's important to you.

So the past can come in many forms.

But from now on mine will be a sponge.