Boxes

My history is written,

Enclosed in the minds on those who knew me,

Twisted and fractured.

Changed by time and perspective,

Stored in the records of the country,

Silence, loud, deafening silence. I can’t look her in the eyes, but I can’t rip mine away, so I stare. It’s not awkward or anything, I mean she’s staring too.

I’m angry, I’m furious, I’ll try to let it out by complaining,

by venting, by ranting, maybe to one, two, or even three people.