Spaces between clothes hangers. A few sweaters. Jeans I fold under on the bottoms. The box fan that drowns out nighttime noise. My deep purple high school yoga mat. The extensive CD collection I once prized. On the top shelf, stacks of journals filled with free-writing and childlike jokes.
You might hear the scrape of words that can’t be returned and the sound of a gate that clanged. Anger without reason. The criticisms I’ve collected that I sometimes use to color in my portrait.
The poems I did not write. A secret kindness towards myself. Dreams I have yet to realize. The compliments I’ve thought but have not said. Confidence that is waiting in the spaces.