In the closet.
Back corner.
Top shelf.
Layers of dust and raw emotion
induce choking sensations.
Half-broken binders
stuffed with youthful matter,
scribbled and polished.
Words. Words. Words.
Identities erased,
replaced.
If there is space to store these relics
there must be room in this life for all of them.
The person who wrote those words
the person who writes these words
You have felt that wholeness
in psychedelic and artistic fugues
in moments of exquisite pain
in fleeting flashes
in the movement of snails gliding silently under your gaze.
stubborn
forgetful
human
When what you want dissolves
into what is true
where will you put these treasures you’ve unearthed?
Back into the closet?
In a glass case on display?
No
wear them on your sleeve
copy them onto your doorpost
present them without pretense or apology
to the curious observers in your midst