at last year’s leaves
it looks like cluttered
debris, just like
my cherry red bedroom

drawer of scattered memories
I abhor.  I haven’t
the gumption to clean up
the messes of my lie. They hang

as the dresses in my tiny, splintered closet  
mashed together as potatoes from
every deposit. And filled with holes
from moths eating at

the satin clothes. And stains stuck
like gravy from too many
maybes. If only I can remove all
this baggage of war. I'll begin

this weekend with my bedroom drawer.