under the rug

my insecurities get the best of me at times. i try to hide them away, to sweep them under a rug for no one to see. The problem is they fester. The stench of their rotting eminates through my existance, wrinkling my nose and contaminating the air still.
Because of the smell, the curiousity to lift the corner of the rug and poke and them a bit, re-examine and therefore relive them becomes almost an obsession.
They taint the air, taint my actions, often times bringing to fruition the once unfounded fears.
A sort of self-sabotage.