I've now coined the diagnosis "Portable Hoarder" -  Carrying my life in bags and duffles, pockets and sleeves.

Accumulating more baggage than would fit in a **** terminal.

But now, I am home. Me, and my ***** laundry. And I don't fit anymore. Crammed amidst my past. Falling out the door; Spilling across my floor.

Me, myself, and Marshall.



**So, TONIGHT
I'm cleaning out my closet.

You
Were broken
And I spent
Countless hours
Collecting the shards
Of your shattered soul
From the impact
Of a death.
You
Were sobbing
In a heap of
Bloodied tissues
And I was there silently
Destroying evidence of
Your depression
Induced self hate
As I held you closely.
You
Were a gnarled
Garden of lost
Beauty and I
Was there to rid you
Of the invasive weeds
Happily devouring
The life in your veins
Leaving you to die.
But
I was left with
Bleeding hands from
The shards of your soul
Razors sinking in my skin
From your example of
"Release"
The weeds of depression
Strangling me and all I needed was
You.

But you never came.

-ARI