5 years of closing, like a shop in permanent clearance. Slashing prices on pieces of yourself, giving away the best parts for a fraction of their worth.
Frustrated and resentful for not being accepted at full price.
You’re too much, too cold, too sensitive, too uncaring, too… ‘not ‘the type’’.
Not into small talk.
Nothing in common.
But at least you don’t disgust them… right?
5 years of closing - the shutters grinding down heavier every day.
Once full. Open. Lit from the inside.
Now the shelves are bare,
the signage faded,
the windows covered in the dust you’re desperately trying to wipe away.
Feelings? Dismissed.
Truth? Twisted.
Vulnerability? Weaponised.
5 years of closing - not all at once, but inch by inch.
One lightbulb burning out, then another.
One shelf cleared, then another.
You used to know what you stocked.
There was clarity in who you were.
There’s inventory somewhere, maybe -
but no list, no labels.
Just shelves full of things you can’t name,
and no one left to tell you what’s worth buying.
Intentions? Questioned.
Needs? Inconvenient.
Silence? Safer.
5 years of closing - they say you meant to do it.
Meant to shut those shutters hard.
Meant to leave the shelves empty.
Meant to make them feel unwelcome.
As if the boarded windows were part of the plan.
As if the silence behind the counter was customer service.
As if becoming another abandoned shop front was a choice -
not the result of too many days with nothing left in stock.
Unseen in plain sight.
Unheard in full volume.
Unheld, even when breaking.
But hey - at least you don’t disgust them… not quite…
right?
