I am a cabinet-
light brown shelves hidden
from view (read ‘you’)
because I house a heart
that beats too fast
and too loudly for a body
as small as mine.
(If only anxiety were poetry).

Bits of onion pink lint
and a hint of mothballs
stay buried in the third drawer.
Yes, that is jammed shut
because therapy
is expensive, which is to say,
my grief hides there
(and I let it suffocate).

Let me dust the shelves,
clear the clutter
(mostly, into recycling)
and gather the guts
to display the colour,
through glass panes instead
of wooden doors.
Then, I’ll invite you in.