My Box of Journals

There's a box. I trust that box. I trust it more than anyone or anything. It is my most prized possession. There are so many stories in that box. He loved me. I loved him. Inseparable we were. Our time was short. In that box lies the memories of a past long gone but impossible to forget. He stays with me in that box. Everywhere I go it goes. He goes. My father lies there as well. Even when he forgot about me I had him by the heart. The version of our fate is different in my box. The box that holds my secrets. My truths. My lies. I wanted him. His taste was a bit fancier. A bit too risqué for my liking. Out of my league is what they said. I never caught his eye. In that box however he chose me. He held me. He touched me in so many ways. He loved me harder than I thought was possible. And I loved him back. He was my first and last. I loved him as much as I could in the small space provided within the confines of that box. There's another version of me in that box. A prettier, stronger more desirable me. I pull her out and obsess over her from time to time. The her I'd love to be. I envy her. The her who never lost him. Who was loved and adored by him. Who was sought after by him. My happily ever after is in that box. That box I give lies to which then become my truths. In lyrics and poems and lines with no beginning or end. I trust that box. It tells me exactly what I want it to. It knows my heart. It knows me. It gets me. It moves me. It holds me. There inside that box I exist as I wish. In words and phrases and pictures and song. I love that box. I love it more than anyone or anything.