I’ll inhale as much as I can, as the summer air whistles into my rolled-down window, wind knotting my hair. The wildflowers line the sides of the road like lights guiding a plane on a runway at night. I’m at peace, but the dirt, it seems, has gotten wet.

Don’t dig; you’ll unearth the box.

The one where I placed my softness, so I may be strong. The resting place of so many I wished to smother under a pillow made of sand. Here it comes, the haunting.

Mirrors are plenty when you’re alone, a manageable funhouse. No one asks for a constant pompilot being shone in their face, though; it makes us acknowledge too much.

I suppose that’s what makes symbiosis in a relationship. When you’re not afraid of your own reflection, the mirror of someone else, you’re likely to grab the shovel and unearth the box yourself.

Because who fucking needs the box?

What use is the box when you can finally be your softness? When you can let go of all the pain from your past because it isn’t your present. Brush the dirt off the box, unseal the lid. Throw it the fuck out.

Let it go.