Shoebox

She opens the old cardboard box, "Converse" across the side
And searches through the memories she worked so hard to hide
His too-long hair and awkward smile and gap between his teeth,
She glances at the polaroid and then looks underneath
A picture from the ocean beach, their legs and backs all bare
A necklace on a golden chain that now she'll never wear
A bright green tank top that forever smelled of his cologne
The yearbook page where he had sworn "You'll never be alone"
That bastard, she thinks to herself, that cruel, dishonest jerk
Months later, she still can't admit that they both needed work
The first Mike's Hard she ever drank, its bottle still in tact
A list called "Why I Love You," barely any of it fact
A love letter she never sent, their picture torn apart,
A ripped out journal page that says "He fucking broke my heart"
A shoebox full of memories of him and her and them
And each time there's another boy, she'll buy new shoes again.