CLUTTER

the damned on the waves

there are certain things a brain can't grasp,
but a heart can feel.
the heart beats and beats and speeds up and slows down and bursts out of your chest and hemorrhages and stops,
to warn you, to tell you when something (or Achilles) is too beautiful, too real, too raw and too poisoned.
but we are raised on heart surgeries, on controlling emotions and thinking instead of feeling and by the time you're 18 you stop listening to these warning signs.
you fall into a trap,
set by a green pair of eyes and golden locks.
you push down these feelings of flight to the soles of your feet and forget them.
you take the tanned hand.
however, in the depths of your being, in those corners where you keep these unwanted things,
a darkness starts to grow.
the red flags start piling up, spilling out like the ocean.
they leave through your eyes, your mouth, your ears until the apartment is flooded and the monet replica is hanging crooked and the silk curtains are stained.
and you lay in pieces on the floor.
no tanned hand in sight to pick you up.
so you float on these waves, wishing you would just sink.
the dead sea will never let you sink.
so you either learn to swim, forever remaining in damp clothes and stained with regret.
or you find a window, a door, pry it open. slowly, painfully, you pry it open. it's months of work. but you do it. and the flood starts disappearing.
and the carpet is its original color and not every cloud looks like his eyes.
you survived the maelstrom.
you threw yourself ashore.
you start listening to your soul again.

where do i begin decluttering?