I haven't been here in a while.
Down this hall, in this room.
The bookshelves that line the walls are full of musty old books
That are red and black and well-worn and barely cracked open
That are blue and brown and ripped and priceless
I don't want to be here, but something led me here
Because I had to leave the other house I was in.
Because I needed shelter, for me and my daughter.
Because I knew this room, down this hall.
And I knew it was safe, even though I forgot what was inside.
Old ghosts whisper from behind the yellowed pages in the books that line the walls.
Secrets and treasures and shame and anger.
My face gets hot because this nostalgia is a roller coaster
My heart leaps and I get a head rush when I read an old love letter.
I feel awkward and empowered
But then I remember the shame and guilt.
An old face wanders into the frame and I want to crawl in a hole
And die because that's not who I am anymore.
Who I was to them is no longer around, and no longer relevant.