To throw away:
The hammer pants I wore
the day we met in person,
faded pattern and hole in knee
you said you would patch
for the memory
10 greeting cards signed by me
for Valentine's, birthday, anniversary.
21 post-it notes with "I ❤️ U"
once hidden around our bedroom
reminders from me, to you.
3 Greeting cards, scribbled by you
2 Given late, 1 on time
asking for *** on Valentine's
The set of knives and cutting block
to you for Christmas, rusted through
you soaked but never washed.
The owl mug, your first gift to me
that fell from my desk, handle broken
tossed instead of lost.
The practice leggings, now too loose,
stretched, and not your size
you "borrowed" and continued to wear
ignoring they were mine.
To wash, febreeze, rest and reset:
The jacket I bought for me,
that became yours when you arrived,
sans winter clothes,
donated, now. Surprise!
The mattress we bought together,
After I cried and begged for hours,
The box spring my then-bestie donated
to me, but you claimed was "ours"
The soft, memorable fabric, on which
I wanted no one else to sit,
my Poppy's Lay-Z-boy,
about which you threw a fit.
The car I gained when I kicked you out,
that I keep cleaner than you would.
My space, my heart, my dignity,
my house and personhood.
November 27, 2024
