We keep running afraid that pasts will creep up on us like some unfamiliar stranger and reveal us to the world. A world where everyone is hiding something, or pushing it to the back of their minds in order to exist cohesively. Afraid that once a string is unraveled, everything you fought so hard to keep in will explode and you’ll be left exposed, essentially naked. Naked for the world to see bruises from years ago when you lost that first love, blunt force trauma to your heart and the moment your legs stopped holding you up, and the night you knew you would never be the same because pain like that shouldn’t happen to anyone, or maybe you just you. Realizing people will hide agendas in phones and slide motives into pockets, you cringe at the idea that you we’re a victim, but maybe they were just like you. Hiding lost feelings in the back pocket of their driver’s seat, because they knew that you would never look there, and it wasn’t to hurt you but who can really face heartbreak. Even the distributors of pain have full pockets, and we’ll fit as much as we can right? Because that’s ok as long as its bearable, right? If we force everything deep enough down, we can make room for more. But pockets have seams, even if you only realize when you’re naked.


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