what it is that is with me

this house has many rooms
with windows painted shut
and doors locked
with keys long lost.
in the attic is a suitcase
filled with memories
of memories
not all mine
but somehow in my keeping

in moments I cannot explain
the weight of untold stories
becomes too much
and i
walk
this house
a forgotten spirit
wondering where the others
have gone

once I told my mother
not to expect things
from me
it would easier
for both of us that way
she knows the truth in this
but cannot live it
so she chooses
disappointment
and I live
the way i do

waiting

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