The Museum of Me: My Uncollected Collections

I. (The Dust of Yes)
Do you have any collections?
Yes—
(but I must whisper it to the wind
because the shelves might hear me lying)

I collect the sound of knees when they bend too fast.
The syllables of strangers before they say my name wrong.
And the eyelash of time—I tuck them
in tea bags steeped in moonburn.

I collect paper cuts.
They speak Morse code
in my skin
(dot dot slash, slash again)
each scar an alphabet
I can't read
but dream in.

II. (A Drawer Full of Almosts)
Some keep stamps.
I keep sighs.
The long ones, exhaled
between ‘I’m fine’
and
‘please ask again’.

Do you have any collections?
I do. I do. I do.
Like a bride married to silence.
Like coins
worn smooth
by wishes that never
heard back from fountains.

My dreams have feathers.
Each one clipped
with a note:
“Too bright for flight.”
(And still, I collect them.)

III. (The Cabinet of Echoes)
In my left pocket,
a jar of unanswered texts.
In my right,
a choir of voices I didn’t become.

My collection of goodbyes
is kept in antique matchboxes.
They ignite when I open them—
the spark of what-was-never.

One holds your name,
written backward,
so it only burns
when I forget the sound of your laugh.
(That one's on a high shelf
in case I need to forget again.)

IV. (Somewhere Between the Rain)
Do I collect things?
No.
I collect absences.

I collect where the rain didn’t fall.
Where the letter wasn’t sent.
Where the apology
stood
naked
in the doorway
and turned back around.

I collect shadow laughter—
the kind that happens
when the joke misses the room
and hits you
in the past.

V. (Refrigerated Heartbeats)
My fridge collects magnets from cities I’ve never been to.
Each one a lie someone gifted me.
(“Thought of you in Amsterdam.”)
(I’ve never even left my body.)

I collect “somedays”
in the ice tray.
They freeze better
than promises.

Do you have any collections?
I have cassette tapes
with no sound
just static like snow arguing with a screen.

VI. (Ephemera Cathedral)
I collect mistakes in an incense box.
Each one smells like
a different version of me.
One is citrus-regret.
Another is sandalwood-denial.

I wear shame like a badge.
Not pinned—
stapled.
And the blood?
That too is a collection.
(One drop for every "I'm fine"
I buried with a smile.)

My collection includes
a drawer of unfinished sentences.
Like:
“If only I had…”
or
“She said I was…”
or
“The sky turned…”
(then nothing)

VII. (Reckonings & Revelations)
I collect
the memory
of you—
but never you.

Do you have any collections?
I collected an hour
where I thought I was happy.
It dissolved in my pocket
before I could wrap it in
aluminum nostalgia.

I collect spoons
of silence.
Serve them to guests
who never arrive.
My table set
with metaphors
and no one’s hungry.

I once tried collecting God
in a teacup.
It spilled.
(I drank it anyway.)


---

(if endings are real)
So yes,
if you ask,
I’ll say:
“I collect.”

Not dolls,
not stamps,
not coins,
not pretty teacups with royal cracks.

I collect
the stuff
that lingers
after the world
walks out of the room.

And in this
museum of me—
nothing is labeled.
Nothing is safe.
But everything is
mine.

—
Exhibit open.
Entry: free.
Exit: forgotten.