I’m sitting in our home void of noise.
I know what I need to do. I’m not doing it.
I did however figure out why I was pacing
when we first moved in. Searching, feeling
the walls and pausing in doorways. The
reasoning was revealed to me in two parts.
One of which I wasn’t surprised, but the other,
was a gift waiting to be opened, and when I
did, it came along hauntingly and grew
into itself before me; as though I pulled a string
from my throat and with it came the voice of
a story that merely needed to the right to express.
We were so poor growing up
that sometimes I can’t take
newly purchased clothes
out of the bags
I guess I feel as though
I don’t deserve them
Guilt followed me home
And guilt lingers
in the opening of them
Someone else could use these
I don’t really need them
I had an emotional connection with a piece
of paper once
It was white and empty
Wanting me to spew my thoughts
I didn’t though
I turned the paper over in my hands
Placed it back onto my desk
I don’t need paper