The Things I Haven't Thrown Away

The Things I Haven’t Thrown Away

I’ve held on to my anger far too long:

it’s smudged with fingerprints and oily spots,

the edge, once sharp, has dulled by overuse,

my hands are blistered and dripping with sweat,

I’ve rubbed it on my shirt, but it’s still hard

to keep a grip on it and yet I do,

although the handle broke off years ago.

I used to have a fragile ego too,

but dropped it down the stairs and shattered it

it wasn’t worth as much as I once thought,

just green faience, not fancy porcelain.

I keep some shards of it, but am not sure,

why I’ve not thrown it all away by now.

They’re in a box beside my rosy shades.

I keep it with my baggage, close beside

huge steamer trunks of losses and regrets,

of bitter pills and hot, salty remarks,

shoved up against my bolted closet door

that rattles from the monsters trapped inside. 

I also hang my shirt there, where I’ve pinned

my tender heart upon its tattered sleeve.