I ransack the
closet of my childhood nightly
in REM, then
of a full-on sweaty sleep.
Swipe left, then right
throw over and down the stairs to the gravel
kick across the curb, up an alley
towards a beat up, wonky
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
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
now buried deep in plastic-cased memories
and journals of hand-written sin.
I close the door nightly and start over again.