Behind your bi-folding mirrors
I'm led into the closet.

The closet where you kept
endless time and history.

When you opened that shoebox
and showed my eyes, and let the light
shine bright on, the past crammed tight
into that beautiful cardboard coffin

I took up your red sharpie pen
and wrote generic lyrics along
the lines of an empty tissue box
kept right by your so sickly beside.

Years later when you moved out
and found my words written
while you picked up those memories
from your one and only room,

I cried when you told me
you never even knew.

I died when you showed me,
because we never even grew.