Collecting dust and sunlight – those birthday cards and photographs I didn't rip up mock me.
Those pajama pants, those dried up roses and the t-shirts I never wore; the books I still haven't read and the chocolates I never ate – all the gifts that went to waste. Countless faces whose names I can't remember, no matter how hard I try (not that I try too hard sometimes). Collecting broken hearts and angry boys, unintentional devastation for self-preservation; a small price to pay until I feel them collecting at the back of my head – clusters of buried memories manifest in a migraine, a throbbing reminder of all the people I've left behind and all the stuff they left with me all the new people they brought into my life, and all the things they gave me that I never needed still on my shelves next to the skeletons hanging in the closet of my heart. I kept the trinkets and all the people I barely knew – tucked away the stupid hallmarks and frames; donated the clothes and watched the flowers die.
My Favorite Hobby
Collecting trinkets and acquaintances for memories, useless knick-knacks on the shelves of past relationships that failed.
Reminders of failed relationships - the people I couldn't bring myself to trust, yet fell in love with me and all I felt was lonely – collecting regrets and remorse like stamps and thimbles: heartbreak is my favorite hobby.
Juliet Elizabeth Childers 33
Published on Jun 5, 2012
From the Depths is a quarterly literary journal from Haunted Waters Press featuring works of prose, creative nonfiction and poetry. Issues a...