TO FAIL SO FLAWLESSLY

let me have space

It's a piece of paper randomly
torn and shoved into a
half-read book laid on the
swivel chair where its wheels
can't really move well on the
carpet anyways--but the clothes
scattered on the floor absolutely
don't help, either. It's the
thank you note from a friend,
long tucked behind the grey
wicker dresser, with pretty
comments of who I am
meant to be. How they see me.
It's the closet that's full of
everything but my own items,
where I pretend that the
minimalist is for me, but really,
it's because no one has left any
space for my own items. And
even if they did, and if they
were restrained, I know I'd be the
one to find out how to cram that
space full with things I don't need,
and things I don't want. Half used
lotions, and unopened gifts. A
misplaced idea crunched
on the shelf next to the
long-abandoned hobby of
an enthusiastic two weeks.

It's the window that collects dust,
and hasn't been cleaned,
along with the rest of the
room in weeks, months.
Has it been years? Who knows
when it all runs together like
an endless void of black, white,
black, white, black, white.

It's the long black shoe
organizer that wraps
around the closet bar,
and I am determined to
fit all my items into it,
rather than having some
stroke of intelligence,
moving all the things
not mine, and getting rid of it,
and investing into a singular
furniture piece that would
properly hold my belongings
and more. I mean, it's worse
than living out of suitcase.

If I want space, let me have space.