The Box

I am the strong ones. That's what I tell myselves. It almost becomes a badge of honor to be able to handle anything without falling apart. I fear looking weak. If i let my feelings come forward, I might fall apart.

So I carried around all the stories everyday for years. They were a heavy burden. They weighed on my soul. They made me grow weary. I grew exhausted with hearing the screams, tears, cries, that went along with these stories. So I invented the imaginary box in my head. I put all of it in there. I close that box tightly on the way home from work. No one outside of another nurse would understand what is in that box.

Every once in a while something refuses to go in the box. I carry those story around with me. These things that are too big to fit in the box. Time makes the story grow smaller and it then goes in the box with the other stories. Those kind of stories leave little marks on my soul. I am only human after all.