Bag full of memories

I saw a dead butterfly today
And trapped it’s beautiful
carcass in my heart.
For how long? I wonder.

‘Cause I am known
to add feather after feather
of emotional wreckage
into my bag full of memories,
dragging it along
wherever I go.
Waiting for that day
when it will bloat up
and grow fatally heavy.
Then I will be forced
to open it,
and let a bunch of ghosts fly.
A butterfly here,
a goldfish there.
A dog here,
a person there.
All beautiful memories once,
now grotesque and misshapen.

I guess the blurry ones
will leave first
And with each vanishing ghost
I will feel lighter…
If only for a moment.

Then I will start walking again,
dragging behind
my bag full of broken things,
preserving corpses in my head.
Wondering why some lives
that touch us
become memories
and some get pushed aside, so easy?

And I will keep walking.
Sometimes light as a feather.
Sometimes heavier than a black hole.
Until my pieces find their way
into other peoples’ bags.

And I will wonder
how long will I have to stay
in transit?
How long before
they let me go?
Before my memories fade?


Will I be too far gone to care?
Will my memories of them
fade before their memories of me?
I hope my dead butterfly
knows these answers by now.


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