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