The Bags.

I’m packing a bundle of button-less bags, to be metaphorically thrown off a bridge.

Inside are collections of nonsensical guilt: time spent worrying that I’m too much of this or not enough of that.

Clanking around are mismatched jars of other people’s history; deceiving friendships; all the instances I’ve been made an example of because I’m small, receptive, and kind.

I’ve thrown in my Size 4 Jeans that will surely never fit again.

I shove in meaningless knick-knackery that is supposed to be sentimental, but only sneers in silence.

I toss in the paperback version of a book that has caused so much grief, turmoil, and death.

My hands sprinkle in the ripped remains of photos from a life no longer lived.

Burn, motherfucker.

Burn.

. . .

SnapDragon is a writer, painter, wife, mom, and speaker of sometimes unpopular truths.

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