sifting through old clothes,
i enter a museum of self.
costumes of my past
hung up on display.
as i touch every fabric,
i’m reminded of each story:
the character,
the cast,
the script,
the stage.
it is the wardrobe of
a washed up actor who was
ever yearning for the applause
of her audience and
the praise of her critics.
all those years she wasted
losing herself in roles,
in the demands of characters,
now collecting dust within a dark closet.