everything is in boxes
in my mother’s house
in my father’s house
in the back of my trunk
different things in each of them
books and vinyl
jesus, innocence, mirrors
paintings that my little brother and sister
made for me at school
and i can’t find my journal in any of them
i didn’t used to have to tie strings
around my pinkies
to remind myself to breathe in words
i used to write too much
with ink smears tattooed on the
side of my left hand
i carried it around
******* on my fingers
tasting the poetry drip
from my mouth like sticky mango juice
and people read it
and my muses hated me
and i didn’t even have to try