Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Eight, Poem Number Eight: “What Am I Giving Away Here?”

What am I giving away here?
Interwoven memories or
Merely stitched fabrics.
The smells have washed away
As have the dirt and the filth.
Hard as I try
I can’t roll around in that soil again
It wouldn’t be the same stains and grime.

What am I giving away here?
Gifts I never appreciated,
Items I’ve outgrown.
In size and scale
And humor and personality.
There were trips I never took
But falsely advertised.
And regretful acts.
And vacations taken as someone else.
I once tried to hide an unintentional publicized shame
That I now cringe at the thought of releasing.

What am I giving away here?
Control.
Over myself.
Over my past.
Over the history that is told.
They may not fit me anymore
But I am inclined to squeeze into them again.
Those roles and moments and snapshots and lives I miss living.

What am I giving away here?
The first time I truly understood what a woman felt like;
The first time I attempted (and failed) at having people take me seriously;
My innocuous attempt at revenge you’ll never know about;
My drunken attempt at reinventing myself;
No, these shall still be mine.

They will become someone else’s costume
They will tear
And rip
And mend
And love
And assemble a new life out of these rags
And perhaps they will ask themselves
What am I getting here?

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