I am caressing old wounds like a junk collector
picking each one up tenderly and replaying the memory
and to the outsider it might look as though I am holding
something broken, something useless, a vessel for an old hurt
that no longer serves me (and that someone would be right).
I try to find a way to no longer be that sixteen year old girl
craving approval and feeling hurt so sharply that I have to turn my head
let it seep into the years ahead instead.
Oh all my junk is so lovely, but it weighs me down
a constant reminder of everything I've ever found.
Maybe I need to lose some more things,
build a pack that fits through the door.
Maybe I need to sell some things,
and then once I'm done sell a few more.
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