I’ve never been sentimental
about items. But people:
they are my memories.

I kept the clutter to
keep the people but after years,
every corner of my eye brimmed
with plastic, glass, glitter,
and everyday life-left detritus
felt so heavy it was sanity
to move things out of sight,
out of mind.

So now I keep it sweet and swept,
all neat with no stray hairs or toys—
the rooms stay picturesque, well-kept,
to hush private mess and noise.

Sometimes I give away too much,
a drowning giving way to shame—
weighed down by something I can’t touch,
confessing some sin I can’t name.