the cellar sits idle,
padlock on the ground
with bolt cutters next to it.
the handles wait,
aching to be pulled,
but i know what lives inside-
the whispers,
the weight,
the things with my name etched into them
that haunt me still.
if i open it,
they’ll rush out,
and i don’t know if i’ll have the strength
to shut it-
not again.
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rog's poems 