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"1." by Donna Hoots

I crawled from the wreckage and salvaged what I could-
A book bound in leather and a box made out of wood.
The pages in the book were blank-
I was to write on them with blood.
The box was only slightly damaged when I pulled it
From the mud
So I washed the grime off the outside and
Dumped out all the sludge.
I cleaned and I mended
I varnished and sanded
the box.
I put new hinges on the lid and lined the inside with red velvet.
I carved my name into the bottom,
and it was smooth when I held it.
Then I pricked my finger and began to write.
I filled that book up almost overnight.
In that book I wrote my life
Every joy, every pain, every triumph, every strife.
When at last I knew I was done
I looked up to the new day that had begun.
Then I took one last look at all I'd done,
Made a review of all I'd felt. All the fears,
And how they changed every year,
Every moment of bravery and valour
And now I leave it all. This is the hour.
From this moment, I start life anew,
With none of the old me to hold or drag on me
I'll throw away the book and run free.
Only the box will I keep to remember who I was,
And in it I'll put every memoir of my new life.