Buried Alive

You asked me:

“How can you live like this?”

 

with piles upon piles

of stuff

 

that I have to step over,

trip over,

 

climb over,

growing exponentially:

 

The Blob,

expanding and mutating of its own accord.

 

I responded:

“I don’t have time.”

 

which is a lie,

because time is all I’ve got.

 

The truth

is:

 

the piles contain my heart,

swollen, bruised and buried;

 

broken

for years;

 

useless,

unreachable.

 

The excavation,

the landslide would bring me down.

 

So I avoid, pretend,

and step over;

 

if I don’t unearth it

I can imagine

 

it’s not so bad –

my broken heart

 

is just a heart,

beneath…down deep;

 

not so bad.

Not so bad.

 

If you try to find me

I disappear,

 

slip under,

out of sight,

 

like I never existed

in the first place;

 

nothing to find,

nothing to fix,

 

nothing to love,

nothing lost.

 

Just piles

upon piles;

 

a richness,

a bounty.

 

Remains

of a life

 

I once lived,

that now lives me.