Memories

I struggle to recall at a ragged bus stop Writing memories down on a brown paper bag. The discarded pen I picked off of the weed grass serves As a key to my past, the paper bag the door. My memories gush from the back of my mind, Long lost in the torrents of tears And the literal shattering of my heart Between my breasts. This was not planned, This living on my own means, Struggling to make ends begin. I’ll worry about them meeting When the time comes. The memories I loot From the locked treasure chest At the bottom of the barren sea Of my mind Seem irregular and appear to belong Elsewhere, to someone of fiction. Emerging from somewhere, I sense a longing. For what, I wouldn’t say. Saying what I could say would slow me down. I’ve struggled to progress past the memories And until now, the longing has been stifled. But my memories have broken Through the dam I built And they charge like an army of Trojans, Fighting to the surface of my mind. It appears I’ll have to drown them... Again. It is said that after the first time of anything That thing discussed becomes easier to do Without fail. Well, it’s not. I examine the brown paper bag and the words Scribbled on it, much like the rants of rudimentary children. I take the pen and wind my hair around it, Pinning it on top of my head, since all my hair bands Were left behind, like my memories, my spirit, My smile. It’ll have to do for now. I see two yellow eyes in the distance, Eyes from another world, That glow with radioactive promise; It’s one of those grand busses of leisure Where anyone could have a seizure in peace, Coming to me, to take me away. "Come to me, metal extraterrestrial, Take me to your leader. Whisk me off to your world, To your life, your memories. Everything is better than this." It slows to a stop in front of me, And opens wide, it’s abnormal vertical teeth Directly in front of me. A familiar sound emotes from within: “You coming or not?” The brown paper bag slips from my hand And falls to the dying grass. It stays to pass with the grass, Or to be found by the Nameless Of my past. I once carried my life in my arms, But I’ve abandoned it On the side of the black tar road. “Well?” It’s that sound again. Well, here’s to my future. Take me away, Mr. Alien; New troubles await.