I wish I could neatly pack into suitcases
my sentences soaked in adulthood
and take them back to that sun-filled house,
where the only bad dreams I had were
gone when I woke up. It was the house
where my words were clean as the summer rain I played in.
I still remember the spaces in which I used to hide;
forgive me if I daydream – it was a habit I developed
when I became older, just like my habit of packing away
my sentences into suitcases until
they overflow and stain the carpet.
But these stains are no masterpieces,
the colors dance around until they’re dizzy and forget their places.
I may only be eighteen, but I know what it looks like
when you drink too much
and that’s what I see on my carpet – my dad always mentions
the odor my shoes carry, neatly packed into the laces woven
by sweating, shaking fingers.
Forgive me if I daydream – there’s simply nothing else to do.