I am the voice
In the back of your mind
Telling you to make a mental note
Of how your first sip of coffee tastes
The morning before your first day at a new job.
I am the friend
Standing on the outskirts of the group
Relentlessly taking photographs
Of the people she loves too much
Doing what they’ve done every day prior.
I am the tattered cardboard box
With a halo of glowing dust
Sitting in the attic alone
With nothing but its memories
Filling it up as the days go by.
When I think of who I am and
Who I have become after a journey of
Only 18 years
I look at my pile of souvenirs
My every day treasures
That I’ve collected as time went on
That remind me of who I was at different times
And who I called home.
I am the closet full of photo albums
With jars of odds and ends
That all together,
Tell the stories of who I am
That words cannot.