I am trying to organize all this shit that is rolling around in my brain, put each thing in its box and close the fuckers out. I am cleaning out my closet, I need some time.
I thought I had managed to do that but Spring always comes and you need to sweep through the remains of the Winter that just recently went by.
This fucking moment always comes and some kind of poorly-packed pain pops out and I am hit in the face by my own misery.
I was supposed to have this all under control, all fucking tidied up, and yet, I find more shit that I accumulated in some old bag on the back of some drawer.
I am finding some old skirt that someone else used to love seeing on me, a dress that I haven’t worn in forever out of shame or shyness, a coat that fails to cover my frail body from the merciless rain.
I am finding all this and I thought I had handed it down or sent it to a second-hand store. Someone else would be able to repurpose all of it and not tremble at the idea of looking at it every day.
I would invite myself to forget, but my mind is wicked and I am meant to remember all of this and somehow remain unscathed.
I am looking to let go of all of this. So I am able to start over. I need to sell this pain. Will you buy it?
(No one wants to buy pain. Who the fuck would?)
So it’s out of the question. Maybe I should look at it all differently.
These clothes still fit but I am not sure I can wear them again. I should get creative and turn them into something else. Something new, something that won’t remind me of expired misery.
I invite myself to forget but I still haven’t got such an ability. I need to establish that I can’t. And I might not ever be able to act in such a way. I fucking remember.
But memory doesn’t have to be pain.
I still need to clean this fucking closet as I need more space for newness and freshness.
I have a new outfit that was offered by a special someone and it doesn’t seem like it will have a place here. Nonetheless, it needs to be stored up properly.
I have to make a decision.
I bring a box from the pantry and I lay the clothes in it, neatly. I accept the fact that they may get in the right hands one day… Maybe someone won’t see them as pain but as stories filled with pure feeling that is simply to much for myself to bear.
It feels fucked-up. It feels cold. But I need space.
(But pain appears in such unique ways.)
I invite myself to forget. I try, again and again.
I am not supposed to forget. And that’s alright. But I am giving these clothes away. I am letting go of anything associated to them.
I have a new outfit that fits so well. I don’t feel like the repulsive, unattractive human being I used to believe I was. I feel like I am just how I am supposed to be.
I will say “Addio” to my old pain.
Sono bella come sono. Ti invito a dimenticare chi ero.