"Burn it. It's fun. You can send me pictures of it
to make yourself feel better."

You told me that five years ago,
but two days ago I took the memories,
contained in a box bound by tape,
layered like armor
to protect myself
from nostalgia.

Flames licked journal pages,
turned them to reveal every past struggle
that slowly became indecipherable ash
the river washed away.

Grief didn't linger, just smoke's scent in my hair.
Apathy disappointed me.
The box was just a box in the end,
and all it did was take space.