Shame

I like to bury my past in mental closets. Sometimes I pack it in boxes that I label with shame. But more often than not it’s disorganized. Piles of junk that I shove away. I put Shame on the door so I know not to go back. And I tell myself that I can not afford to see any of it, lest I am infected by the contagion. The disorganization gnaws quietly away in the back of my mind. Just more thing to remind me I’m not good enough. Even at hiding from myself. And so Shame has become the Cerberus that guards the library of my past.