I keep my worst thoughts packed where I won’t forget,

In a box in my backpack I don’t open yet.

Next to an old bong I should’ve thrown away,

Still smells like the nights I was trying to stay.

I tell myself I’ll deal with it when I’m ahead,

When the days don’t feel like they’re borrowing breath.

But every mile I walk, every place I land,

I feel it tap my spine like it wants my hand.

I learned early how to carry things light,

Say “I’m fine” like a ritual, not a lie.

But weight doesn’t leave when you move it around,

It just learns your posture, memorizes the ground.

There’s a box in my backpack I don’t open,

Full of versions of me I never let breathe.

I keep adding days like padding and hope

That time will turn silence into relief.

I don’t talk about it—I organize instead,

Call it progress, keep it out of my head.

If I label it right, maybe it won’t spread,

Maybe distance will count as getting ahead.

But it shows up at night when the room goes thin,

When the noise dies down and I check back in.

I unzip it halfway, then change my mind,

Like knowing what’s there is already a line.

There’s a box in my backpack I step around,

I feel it shift when I sit back down.

I tell myself I’ve grown, I tell myself I’ve learned,

But the things you carry still get their turn.

I’m not scared of what’s in it—I packed it myself.

Every word I swallowed, every ask for help.

Every door I didn’t open, every time I stayed quiet,

Every version of me that learned compliance.

They say time heals, but time just trains you how

To keep walking forward with it digging in now.

I keep my pace steady, I keep my face clean,

But my shoulders remember what they’ve seen.

There’s a box in my backpack I don’t open,

And maybe that’s the cost of staying upright.

I don’t need to unpack it all at once,

I just need to stop pretending the weight isn’t mine.

If I ever do open it, I won’t call it release.

I won’t make it a moment or a scene.

I’ll sit with what’s there, let it say what it says,

Then zip it back up without hating myself for it.

I’m still walking.

I’m still here.

That has to count for something.