I find it hard to let go-
the person I was and the people I’ve met
are kept as trinkets in boxes
scattered around my childhood bedroom.
at every intersection in my life,
I cling to the people I have met
because I know they have changed me
and I don’t want to forget
because, at some point,
the memories are all you have.
there is no space for me to hold on
in my room or in my heart
but that won’t stop me from trying.
that won’t stop me from lying,
and saying I don’t care.
and that won’t stop me from crying
because broken sobs often lull me to sleep
over people who will never know how much I care-
or who knew, and left.
in my old age
I have become more open,
existing without a filter
so now people shall know every thought
that passes through this scattered brain.
apparently, in my world
secrets are not meant to be kept
because all I do is share.
it is inevitable
for better or for worse,
so my rambles shall continue:
I have faint scars
on my upper arms
and tear stained cheeks.
I spend too much time perusing my bookshelves
transporting myself backwards
to the person who was transformed by these stories.
a bookworm found friendship in these characters,
happiness in the narratives,
and tucked among this fiction
you can find journal entries of a girl
long grown up
written in gel pen
and poorly sharpened pencils.
I can’t read too much at a time
because I still feel the emotions
and can’t believe that even a second has gone by.
open me up
and you will find unchanging truths:
I have an overflowing heart
and no sense of direction
in road trips or in life-
but in neither case do I hope
for a singular path to follow.
I often forget that I exist
to anyone other than myself
(I’m too busy paying attention to others)
I wish to write a book
and have a pet llama
and live my life wearing a wedding dress
in a house that is only mine.
I have too many worries
and I could waste my life away
but I step out the door every day
because life in action makes me smile.
I want to do and I want to be and I want to live.
my experiences have built me and I want to keep growing.
let my room continue to be a mess
of brightly coloured boxes of memories made.
I will hold onto everything I’ve done
because this is who I am,
and what I will pass on
in the things I create,
and the stories I write.
and maybe it’s not so bad,
to have a cluttered room and a cluttered mind
because I have built myself on a pile of memories
a collection of stuff that will continue to grow.
I cannot shed myself of my past
I will never close myself off
and I am perpetually over-attached
because this is what has made me
and this is who I am.