There is a morgue in my bedroom.
Past all the happy memories,
Hidden in my closet,
The dead lie, waiting.
It contains deceased memories, relationships
In the form of stuffed animals, cards, notes, pictures
I hide my grief.
Some may call it a cemetery, but it is not.
It is not a resting place for the dead,
but a place for restless memories to skulk.
A haunting ground.