Tuesday, April 10, 2012

halfway between home and the nomad's life

In my room there was
a strand of christmas lights
lining the four walls,
eating itself where it
began and my records are
filed in a cardboard box in the corner.
When I left I left two piles of clothes,
one for keeping, one for
burning. For
I left a pair of scissors on the floor and
the smell of moist towels molding the air.
It seems the clothes have evaporated with the tears,
leaving the scissors in a cup on the desk while
the strand of lights no longer clings to the wall
but droops in the center of this
The records, thank god, haven't been touched.
When I left I thought I left what I cared about because
it hurt too much. As it turns out, I left a pile of shit
and some fucking
christmas lights.

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