I am a hoarder

There is a movement afoot
to only keep the things in life that bring you joy
Items that bring a happy rush
a smile in fashionable form

But…

I’m a hoarder
Not of things
though my husband might disagree

I am a hoarder of feelings
Of little hurts and insults
I keep them tucked away safe and secure
so that I may pull them out on a rainy day
And look them over
Marking each scar, reliving each wound
Taking note of those that bled
Picking at them until they hemorrhage again
I am a saver

I keep the painful memories running on a loop
so that I may watch them at any time
Remembering each tear
each strangled cry
The volume muted as the emotions
rip across the screen

I accumulate
I store those little barbs
letting them fester 
Keeping the thorns close
pressed beneath the skin
Letting the ache feed my angst
Giving the throb a place to call home

I am a collector
Of insignificant insults
to my self and to my soul
Wrapping my suffering about my shoulders
Tucking the hatred in tight
so that no warmth will touch my reason
Batting the friendly gestures of peace aside with my righteousness

I am a hoarder, a collector, a saver of sorrow
No one understands my treasures
or wants to see what I’ve squirreled about me
At least not more than once

They are only interested in their own museums
Their own collections
Their own galleries of darkness

I am a hoarder. 
But I am not alone.