This time I moved my bags . . .
clear across the room.
I had no cucumbers lying around
to pick up shop at moon.
Though I felt like a dirty rag
just left on the side to dry,
soak and wet with tears,
inside . . . I tried. I bribed.
My bags were half way by the door
ready to walk out and leave,
as much as I didn't want to
I really had to feed
. . . this unhealthy feeling: cold
my covers were not enough
couldn't cover up my silence,
the silence I wanted to fuss.
my telephone by my side
my keys in right, his left hand(ed)
he unlocked my door of need
the door I shut with speed
Go!
Ignore.
Pause.
Stop! and "just Breathe."
-----
my bags fell down the stairs though,
so I kicked and screamed - turned red.
The blood red velvet cover,
is the one we both slept under.
Rolled out of 'bag' in the morning
after pleasant memory.
That picture, my favorite one
in my journal now . . . lock and key.
----
My bags held loads of laundry
No chance to start re-cycle
Now chapter 3
confused . . .
by compli-who?
That bag was really heavy
too many kept zipped tight
I commented on its weighedness
With him, I guess I'm right?
I write these words to hear me
to see what bags to empty
tonight my bags were black
in dark my breath unstealthly
----
Moving on . . . every bag,
we carried day by day
one day they kept me conscious
one day with stories told
one day they were worth the wait,
calm and cured my soul.
One day, my bags like ears
listening for tones before rest
The last words I can remember
just 'got' a hold to my chest.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
my bags were filled with orange, green beaks inside.
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