Mess

Clutter, I call it. Sentimentality. An attachment. Some rational people would call it a mess. Objects scattered. Thoughts left across the floor. I look to the reflection of my mind, Thrown, left, forgotten. How could I forget? I’ll tidy it later. I’ll remind myself. I’ll get more organised. A rotting excuse, as my thoughts trail through my door and leak across the room, too much for my hands to hold. So I let go. Ripped up sheets, photographs, The bin has surpassed its limit. Mugs gather dust, along with the remnants of my last sip of energy, When I could be bothered. Broken hourglass, There’s only so much sand left in me. Before I make a mess.