“I don’t want this anymore.”
Scared to open my closet door.
Turning sideways to cross my room.
Because I wanted to be
good at that, or try something new
a decade ago.
As if I could course correct
my life with the things I’ve kept.
Because “some day” is still possible?
serve as lessons
I ache to throw it all away,
but I’m stopped by the weight
of the fortune I turned into a mess.
How fortunate for it
that I’ve come to value, value
over my own comfort.
When will I own up to my own objects?
When will I have the guts to reject
the pressures they represent?
How do I say all of this in a classified ad,
or bottle it into a vaccine
against buying anything ever again?