I glance towards you God
To figure out what to do with the heaps of stuff:
And the neverending paper piles.
The wasteland that is my spare bedroom
Filled with clothes three sizes too small.
My waist will never be that small again,
I cry to myself,
But I want to remember when it was.
The garage filled with extra books
And records from
Fifteen, sixteen… well… almost 20 years ago.
Who needs computer books from 1996, anway?
Apparently, I do.
The desk filled with receipts and scraps of papers
With important number written down
Even though I have no idea whose numbers they are.
The basement filled with memories
The cherished items of loved ones
But in boxes, so I don’t enjoy them
My loved ones can’t enjoy them
And God, you can’t even enjoy them.
Half open bottles of conditioner and facial creams.
Ooops. I forgot I already had one
But I should keep them both. I’ll use them one day.
I’ll use them one day… I’ll use them one day…
The biggest lie I tell myself
The biggest lie I tell you, God.
My friends laugh,
My family jokes,
Strangers who enter my office or car or abode
As if no one has any faults
Or kept something a little too long.
Like they laugh at those on Hoarders
As if it’s a fault and not a mental health issue.
As if no one has a limitation in their body
They can’t understand my brain.
I can’t understand my brain.
It’s all so overwhelming.
Nevertheless, help me shed the extra stuff in the shed,
And the closets,
And the cupboards
And the kitchen pantry
And the laundry room
And the garage
And the trunk of my car.
Most of all, God,
Give me the courage to dump the things I’ll think need someday
And trust you instead.