Sorting through boxes of old stuff
triggered a moment of self-loathing
or rather, loathing for the old selves
who came out and tried to smother me.
My junior high school poetry.
My 16-year-old self’s car keys
and cork bulletin board
covered with movie tickets.
My 24-year-old self’s attempts
at balancing a checkbook.
All the meanness,
all the family tension.
And a garage I can’t park in yet.
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