junk drawers.

“…wooing distant  parts of myself…”—alice munro.

we keep them closed. we don’t leave our messes sprawled out for the world to see. pieces of our old selves, fragments of earlier versions. we keep them for nostalgia and sentimentality. we keep them because we’re scared of what happens if we let go. 

i have been tempted to rake everything up in a pile and sweep it in the trash, run off and start fresh. part of me thinks that would be easier—an annual dumping of all the things that are leftover or complicated. (wearing your drawers, this idea is a magnet).

“it never gets any easier, any less confusing,” she told me. and i wished i could stop time.
            we’re using it up too quickly. i can feel it, feel the days run run run—like water, right through my clenched fingers. 

i’m sitting in a classroom, an exam in front of me, pen in my right hand. i am chewing absently on the pen’s cap. it’s already misshapen from other classes, other tests. i have been staring at a blank page for almost an hour. for once, i don’t know. actually nothing. 
                        i wasn’t prepared.