To be honest I couldn't show them.
I didn't tell anyone about those poems.
I pushed them down.
Down into a notebook.
Down into a box marked "old stuff."
Down into a basement.
I tried to get away from it.

And when you would crawl your way to the
front of my mind,
I would push you down.
Down into my brain stem.
Down into my blood stream.
You clawed my heart and left deep marks,
but I remember I pushed you down.

How is it that you come back around?

I pushed you into my stomach. You made me want to *****.
But I pushed it all down.
I swallowed you down,
but you still came up in conversation.
"Guys, don't you know she's in a box in a basement?"
I had to push you into my bowels so you would get out.
But I remember I pushed you down.

And then that night in a fit of rage and
aggravation you hit me in the face,
and I pushed you down.
It might as well have been a cliff. It might as well
have been the deep abyss,
but it was just the ground.
Some nights I turn over and there you sleep.
I rub my eyes in disbelief because
I remember I pushed you down.

How is it that you still come back around?