I have a tattered shoe box
Filled with notes I shouldn’t keep
Addressed to names I was called
But forbidden to repeat.

There’s a bundle of sticks
Bound up in rubber bands,
A small bag of stones
And tiny fractured chicken bones.

Why did I hold onto this trash
That weaponized internal wars?
Perhaps to keep due evidence
Of what created these scabs and scars.

This shoe box is tired now
With mementos I must spurn.
To be pleased in the present
This box I must burn.

I have more poems. Perhaps you will like this one.

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