Sometimes i'm the small hand on a clock, sluggishly winding its way around a time frame no one wants to acknowledge
Sometimes i'm the book you've put your initials on and forgot
Sometimes i'm the flammable silk you bring out for microwave dinners
And occasionally the dark lace underwear that's hidden under your white cottons
I'm the giggle you seek after funerals
And the reflection under empty wine bottles
I'm the fun nights you refuse to talk about in formal company
Made up of lipstick stained tissue papers with numbers half finished scribbled on its empty behind
I'm the 3rd grade essay you refuse to take seriously,  but keep in a folder because it makes a beautiful memory
I'm the words you let your lips hold on to for fear they may embarrass you
I'm the shy love letter your father sent your mother before they knew what being in love really meant
And later
Much later
I'm the teacher parent conference your father took you to because your parents couldn't stand to be in the same room together
I'm the ice cream you eat alone because you heard somewhere that ice cream fixes everything
And the pillow talk you shared with your best friend before time stretched your friendship apart
I'm the long walks you took when going home felt unbearable So as to bleed your feet from too much exhaustion, then maybe,  just maybe,  you'll have a full nights sleep
I am everything you keep others from seeing
I'm also everything you cringe away from when the reflection startles you in the mirror