Ersatz Docent in the I Am Museum

Welcome. I'm the one they left behind. An alter ego of sorts— just the keeper, the inventory clerk, interim ghost. New items arrive every day— spat out from my boss's pockets, sometimes still wet, still ticking. I stack them in corners. I don't ask where they've been. This way, please: to the Room of Poorly Considered Promises— frayed friendship bracelets, a mixtape of second thoughts, a half-cooked wishbone labeled optimism. Mind the crack in the floor— that's from the time we tried to leave everything behind and tripped on the way out of the closet. (Management regrets the inconvenience.) Here’s the Gallery of Bruises: small, private ones, mostly. The kinds you don't point to at dinner parties. Each one catalogued, misfiled, reopened at least twice. In the next corridor: the mirrors that don't reflect anything anymore. You’re welcome to try. They mostly cough up fog and old arguments. Storage Overflow spills into the stairwells: expired passwords, shriveled peach skins, the name of the street we shouldn't have turned down. The New Arrivals bin is humming again— today it choked up a plastic ring from a grocery store gumball machine, still warm with old laughter, still sharp enough to leave a welt. Please do not feed the exhibits. They remember the taste of your hands. Before you leave— you might want to check Lost Claims. Sometimes you find a breath you didn't know you misplaced. Sometimes you lose one just leaning in too close. Thank you for visiting. I’ll be here when you come back. Even if you don’t.