Sunday, November 23, 2014


The attic of 
my mind is a 

habitually storing
things away, 
I pack 

sepia photos of memories 
little vials of unresolved emotions
every word I (n)ever said
into cardboard boxes 
that crinkle and
fold at the edges,
in the corners
they collect dust 

piled and
teetering ever so slightly 
on the verge of 

And although 
the floorboards creak 
under the weight and 
many of the boxes spilling
contents in their rot 
I cannot get myself 
to pick up the broom and 
sweep them out

and so the things are 
left as they are 
to weigh down on me 
and decay.

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