bad poetry

Life has been busy.
I’ve been working and spending time on myself, too.
There are a lot of things I’m processing.
I’m thinking a lot about boundaries and how to set them and maintain them without feeling selfish about it.
Meanwhile, I’ve also been doing some real housekeeping and found some old journals in boxes in the garage. I thought I’d share some of my old bad poetry. I didn’t date it, so I really don’t know how old it is. How bad it is will soon be obvious.

the back of the closet

I put on the “right” clothes
and I hung myself neatly on
a hanger and tucked myself away
in a plastic bag
in the back of the closet.

I spent years
trying on new clothes
and myself still hung there
getting mussed and wrinkled
there
in the back of the closet.

And years later I
pulled myself out
of the plastic bag to have
a laugh, a look
and remember.
But I didn’t laugh.
I remembered.

I remembered a song.

I remembered a lap.

I remembered a rainstorm.

I remembered myself.

I thought I’d try myself on
but I didn’t think myself would fit anymore.
It didn’t matter that it had stains and wrinkles.
Once it had fit.
Once it had been just right
and now I couldn’t remember why
I’d stuffed myself in the
back of a closet.

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