I am disassembling parts of myself that I have not touched in years

pieces of me, intricate parts of my history 

that have become old and dusty, spoiled in the sun 

while they sat  on a shelf, waiting to be opened

these stories have been screaming to be told 

they have been shouting over top of each other 

in my own head 

and I have not listened 

I've gone about my day, my life,

knowing that they were there but choosing to pretend that they weren't 

and now, I open them up 

I read them. I dissect them. 

and as I pick them apart I begin to see very clearly

that my pain has become so ingrained in me 

that it is quite possible that I cannot live without it

that healing doesn't mean that it will all go away

but that I will learn to be graceful while holding all my baggages 

it has become clear, 

that my ugly past will never be pretty 

and with that acceptance I can move freely 

and live in a way that resembles the act of moving on.