Storage

The attic of 

my mind is a 

mess:

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 

collapse.

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.