Search
  • POETRY

Closets


I ransack the

closet of my childhood nightly

in REM, then

half stages

of a full-on sweaty sleep.

Swipe left, then right

yank

around

throw over and down the stairs to the gravel

kick across the curb, up an alley

towards a beat up, wonky

sideways street.

What is bared and ripped and torn open

is left to shrivel and dry like a garbage

can of week old leafy greens

reeking with tepid anger.

I rifle through drawers of ungrateful, shoe

racks stacked with fake wooden three-inch heels

high of guilt and regret.

Skinny wire hangers draped in you’ve been lucky.

Scarves tied in neat knotted up words of

only sluts stay out past ten?

Neatly pressed trousers

hiding the word whore in a back pocket

where have you been?

I wrinkle it up in a ball and toss them away all

over again.

They come back like chunky Gap sweaters and

acid washed jeans

held up by belts like beatings swaying

on nailed rings.

Tough skin made from hate that came

before you

now buried deep in plastic-cased memories

and journals of hand-written sin.

I close the door nightly and start over again.

#poetrybyme

0 views

Recent Posts

See All

Fixer Upper

Lowcountry Weekly Everywhere you look these days, it seems something needs fixing. And this something not only needs to be fixed but also must be flipped, fluffed, inflated, puffed up, “pinterested”,

A Curious Lens

Lowcountry Weekly There has been a shift in my life. Not a seismic one. Not earth-shattering, in a thrown to my hands and knees shook-up kinda way. That would be a major change I’d like to think I’d

At Brogen's: Let the Big Dawgs Eat

Web Content/H2O It was probably from the payphone that stood out front of Higdon’s, the old bait, tackle, and breakfast joint that sat across from the pier in the Village. “Mike Haugen called me up

© 2023 by EDUARD MILLER. Proudly created with Wix.com

  • w-facebook
  • Twitter Clean