elbow room

i am a clutter
i am
two square centimetres of a clear, flat surface.
i have crooked teeth
in labyrinth piles on the floor.
tweezers.
where is my overcoat? no, the nice one
with the faux-fur collar, and which unfortunately has no pockets?
i am a useless lock. my things migrate
without my knowledge or permission.
i have fingernails like black eyes.
i am a citizen of object.
i have boxes.
my loss is chronic, not terminal: i will turn up.
who does this scarf belong to?
who will finally throw out these broken headphones?
i have
things in boxes.
i am cold. my fingernails. everything will fray.
everything will unravel. there is no focus.
there is this thick, grainy layer of dust. i am
peripheral, fogging the mirror.
i am fourteen pairs of dirty underwear
about the place. my clock
has stopped. it has been nearly two for weeks now.
this does not
bother me. time
does not stick in my throat.
i am currently reading split ends and cracks in CD cases.
what happened to my other glove?
what is beckoning me from the corner?
what have i forgotten?
what have i forgotten?
tweezers. panadol. my contacts.
i will not evict the spider until i must.
i will just finish this chapter.
i will
finish up, turn in, fray at the edges some more.
i have run out of tissues.
i have gifts and talents.
i have markers. some of them work.
i have spirits.
i have paranoid delusions.
i have four large hairclips, and thirteen small hairclips
and more bobby pins than pair socks.
this is a kind of despair also.