i cleaned out my desk today, and i almost cried
over hand-knit slippers and crumpled bits of paper
clenched fists around travel journals
relics of 2012 wound around my throat
‘cause there are things i’ll never tell you
‘til i turn seventeen, and feel the sky crumple to the touch
til i drive off, pass the test
feel the lightning crack of desperation
i just didn’t want to hurt anyone
but i’ll never shut up and stop whining
about my life and its problems
wallow in the negative, til my presence clings like mud to your skin
and you can’t stand to be around my mildew drip
so i cleaned out my desk and felt a bit
of my heart just rip out of my chest
but i don’t need a pencil from fourth grade
the grocery store receipt from the day that everything was okay
and i was good, i was doing what i was supposed to
it’s just stuff
relics and fossils for them to remember me by
i can’t take it with me but i can sure as hell leave it behind
or stay up all night
pack the weight of my memories all the way across the sea
cause what is grief if not a walk down the railroad track, whistling
as you brace for impact
and what am i
if not the princess of the funeral march
there are things i’ll never say aloud
poems crushed in my chest, too dangerous to speak
there are crutches i’ll never stop using, little stupid fucking tricks
breathe in and breathe out
sift and filter out the parts of yourself
rebuild again, and again, and again