I’m collecting bags.
Not just under my eyes but
in every part of my soul.
Varying weights, like me
on psych meds.
They all hold their place
And fill up with scars
or love or hope or maybe
just some fresh fruit.
My soul market has everything
that I need.
When I bleed it has bandaids
and beer and ****.
Anxiety’s bag is so colorful
and shakes right on cue.

Then there’s you.

Your bag is the largest,
yet totally empty, not even memories
spill from the bag to my brain,
Gosh, it used to drive me insane
the way you went about life
like nothing had happened.
Like seven years just flurried
away, like a bag in the wind,
creates a deafening sound
because I just want it to be
your bag floating around or
down on the ground but
it stays within me.
Empty and cold.
The pollution you’re causing,
it’s just, getting old.

~kb