My first memory of being photographed;

I’m sitting on a pyramid.

A pyramid of boxes and

I remember, every time I smell a sharpie.


I’m tired of packing up;

I’m tired of moving on;

I’m tired of starting over;

I’m sick of all this stuff.


I compartmentalize my identity.

My identity is defined by my compartmentalization.

My present is defined by my rationalization.

My inner dialogue is defined by my memorization.


A file for every life and a life in every file.

A new box, an old box,

boxes left unpacked

marked “Contents: Nostalgia.’


Oh here’s an identity based on men;

men who I allow to shape me,

men who I allow to change me,

men who I allow to embrace me.


Here’s another: based on my family;

what they wanted to accomplish,

what they wanted kept secret,

what they didn’t realize they were teaching me.


The ones in back

have crushed corners and yellowed tape.

The ones up front,

obviously and clearly labeled for all to see.


So many boxes,

neatly pushed aside

to be dealt with later

(maybe never).


My fortress of solitude,

built with cardboard concrete.

Picked up and moved again,

it’s my one constant.


Forever shoved into dark places

only brought out to reminisce

or to remind myself, exactly,

how to repackage myself for consumption.


One response »

  1. Pingback: Cleaning out my closet…. « janiswings

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