Dust Piles


Sometimes we hold things in silence because
we have no clue where else to keep them.
Push and push with all my might to shove these
things deep inside my memory to form dust piles.
Let the edges tatter; set flame to it all. Feed the fire,
hear the crackles. Watch the smoke signals.
Watch fragments align and form tiny goodbyes to past hurts.
We twist memories making them realities when
similarities are far and few. I applaud my memory for
its picky choosing to hang onto some clips so vividly
and turning some such ashy shades of black
and grey it's hard to make out anything worth something.
It plays tricks on me making bigger deals out of
things that should be forgotten pulling bed sheets
over my eyelids, heavily blanketed slumbers bring
flashbacks. Oh, the vivid artistry of this complex mind:
why must you hang onto things worth trashing and
forget all the tiny threads that bound you together
each time you broke? Making friends with the dust
piles, seeking comfort in the messes. Trying to
keep your fists clenched. Keeping palms clean
through the madness just so when it's time to
interlock grips with someone you love, your pain
doesn't stain their fingerprints.
I want to learn to get my hands dirty if it means letting go.

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