Post by Brownie on Mar 12, 2017 0:02:12 GMT -5
The door is closed. On it hangs my dreams, like freshly ironed dresses or untied ties. I remember each one I bought, but I never wore any of them.
My bookshelf is overflowing. In it are my memories, crammed together in multicolored volumes, mismatched so that nothing is proper, but everything fits.
My closet is open. Like the ghosts of old friends, there hang my shirts, worn once and put away, never to be seen again.
My desk is cramped. On it are my thoughts, pens and scissors and little kisses. Coins scattered, notes written only to be forgotten.
My bed is tidy. A fake, a fraud. Three pillows, three blankets all folded and neat, concealing rumpled sheets and loose springs.
My window is closed. Outside is the world. I shut the blinds, lay on my bed, close my eyes and try to forget what it is to be me.
My bookshelf is overflowing. In it are my memories, crammed together in multicolored volumes, mismatched so that nothing is proper, but everything fits.
My closet is open. Like the ghosts of old friends, there hang my shirts, worn once and put away, never to be seen again.
My desk is cramped. On it are my thoughts, pens and scissors and little kisses. Coins scattered, notes written only to be forgotten.
My bed is tidy. A fake, a fraud. Three pillows, three blankets all folded and neat, concealing rumpled sheets and loose springs.
My window is closed. Outside is the world. I shut the blinds, lay on my bed, close my eyes and try to forget what it is to be me.
