I have a separate luggage to drag out,
If I plan to go off on a one-way tour,
My diaries, slam books, paper cuttings.
I have boxes full of strange items,
Some held in memory, some discarded.
I was 12 years old,
When I had the initial urge,
To conceal, bury, cover.
I am living in a constant fear,
Of being shamed,
For believing that I own myself,
That I am in charge of myself,
My admiration for others,
My habit of offering space,
To people, I met during the early 21st century.
And it’s all crashing down on me,
A harsh reality,
That I’ve been a sentimental fool.