My favorite memories fizzle out like melting snowflakes in the wake of spring. They mold, fold, and wrap around my mind in twigs of vines; they constrain my once lively and happy mind. Yet, they slowly wither it away; they whittle away the soul of those memories. My being tries not to attach itself so tightly, like a wound yarn ball, to what it wants. The consequences of the unwound yarn ball confuse me, but in the end, forgetfulness—the forgetfulness—will be the dawn of my past.

My ghost’s exertion is what gives when it searches for these alien memory souls; like treading on the water, it’s not attainable. Oh, how I wish it would be over, and I would be able to implicate my thrown away camera roll in my mind.

I wish I could grab it by its arms and shake it until it forgot, until it ceases in its tries. I don’t need its help to put my past into storage, to put my broken memories into storage, put my everlasting sad memories into storage, and put the toxicity into storage.

I yearn for the sun to make them melt and mold into itself so they’ll leave me alone. But, they won’t, because what I want to put into storage won’t go. Because of the attachment those memories have to me. They can’t exert yet–not for me.

It’s the pain, the regret, the passion, the tears, the everlasting glowing Holland sunsets, the words, the experiences, and the person.

My grip on those memories prohibits me from letting them fall into storage. They will fall into storage when they want to, but for a price. The price of me, the price of my thoughts, the price of my feelings, and the price of pain has increased.

That’s how they have a grip on me; they grip me with these hollow, bony hands, they grip me with the drenched guilt, and they absorb me with these saturated faces.

The faces I have put with my memories scare me sometimes, especially those I want to put away in storage because I have to face those faces again. I have to face them once more before I can put them away under my bed, just like those monsters you think are under your bed as a child.

I have to shoo away my childhood bed monsters, my closet monsters, and my demons.

I have to shoo them out to put what I want into storage without their hold on me.