I aspire one day to be a good memory.
It’s a sad dream.

some nights I wake up,
And curl around the metal box.

There’s a certain scavenger hunt mindset,
Easter, overpriced and for adults

that comes with yard sales.

I can sell you shaded water fountains
And puddling laughter on the blacktop.

Cackling into sobbing, cracking eggs.
My yellow yolk spilling out into the bowl,

Pour carnival confetti on your hair

while watching you gasp in the sink tank.
Kicking, oh how I used to kick,

A blind fury of flailing limbs in the pool.

I just drown now, and don’t turn on properly
I’m broke, broken.

Do you want to buy me? I’m worth

The empty mason jars on the window sill;
A washing machine pretty, dizzy;
fake aged paper, abused, steeped in tea.

After all,
no sane person would ever
sell their darlings,

Me: $ to be determined
when you leave me behind by the sunset, in my nice Sunday dress.

posted on: https://youngwritersproject.org/node/40261