My mom always scolds me for being so sentimental and a bad keeper at the same time.
She always throws away things she knows important to me after I pick them up again, multiple of times.
I always bring things I see valuable at the attic and let them rust or break to pieces or torn apart.
My room is a dragon’s lair of people’s smiles, yellow paper love letters, mixed perfumes, and memories of them I keep like gold.
My room is a museum of my human anatomy;
At my bed lies a brain, not sure if dead or dying, that has neurons that play happy episodes of you and me, but paradoxically makes me cry.
At my drawer is my heart, instead of muscle and cartilage, my veins run through the joint paperback, with words my heartbeat could not utter.
At my doorpost are my ribs, and instead of being locked, they become Corinthian columns, waiting for you to walk inside.
At my window are my lungs, breathing pollen grains from the withering flowers since you stopped watering them.
At my study table are my shaky hands, still holding on to the possibility of holding you again.
And within the long time of being a curator of things I am too bad to look upon, I realized.
My mom does not hate me for being so sentimental or that she does not like the things I keep.
She just wants me to take care of the things I see worthy of keeping and not leave them in the attic to rot.
She just wants the things I love the most to stay.
She just wants me to keep you all along.
But, now, you are already in someone’s museum.
