In my wardrobe hang ghosts of who I once believed I’d be—
Fabric folded around failed promises,
Buttons that remember a body I lost,
or never had.
They whisper every time the door sighs open:
Not enough, not yet, not you.
To leave them would feel like surrender—
so they stay,
a fragile monument to a war still raging quietly under skin.

Letters form a paper mountain on the counter,
their corners sharp like teeth.
Not unread from laziness—
but from the choke of “what if,”
the weight of consequences imagined heavier than truth.
I have carried fear longer than any envelope could hold.

In corners, clutter swells like tidewater—
plans postponed into oblivion,
hope misplaced under grocery lists and dust.
Every mess a mirror,
every surface a battlefield
too wide for one tired heart to clean.

Broken keepsakes gather on shelves—
a necklace clasp frozen in yesterday,
a torn stuffed ear from a childhood that forgot to follow me.
You’d toss them.
I trace their edges like open wounds,
because letting go might mean admitting
that good things were real, once—
and may not come again.

On the windowsill, a plant dried into quiet death,
brittle proof that intentions don’t always bloom.
I leave it there,
because throwing it away feels like telling the truth out loud:
I am trying,
even when nothing grows.

Diaries, swollen with sorrow,
breathe heavy in the dark of a shelf.
Ink remembers battles my voice was too tired to fight.
I read to feel less alone,
though each page pulls me like gravity
backwards, downwards, again.

Toy memories sleep beside adult grief—
remnants of softer years
when love had simpler shapes
and futures didn’t hurt to imagine.
I keep them,
because they were real once,
and sometimes holding the past
is easier than believing in tomorrow.

A banner from a brighter day droops across the attic—
colors faded, joy half-alive in corners of paper.
You’d laugh at the foolishness of saving it.
But when light was scarce, those moments mattered.
They still do.

A lightbulb went out last week.
Then the room dimmed.
Then I did.
It remains untouched—
not from neglect,
but because sometimes lifting your arm
feels like lifting the world.

Treadmills turned monuments to intention,
a yoga mat rolled tight like grief held in the ribs.
Not laziness—
but exhaustion so deep it hums in bone.
Motivation is not a spark;
it is fuel
and mine has run dry.

In the fridge, apples collapse into themselves,
time bruising them the way life bruises me.
Spoiled things stay longer than they should—
not from ignorance,
but because some days survival
is the only task I manage.

Do not call this mess failure.
Do not name this body lazy.
This is living on the edge of empty,
breathing through sludge thick as grief,
choosing, every morning,
to exist one minute more.

You may see clutter, decay, delay.
But I—
I see the quiet courage it takes
to stay
when everything inside says go.

If you want to understand,
do not look at the dust—
listen to the heartbeat beneath it.
It is faint,
but it is still fighting. Still.