Creaky stairs to the basement of my brain. The workshop desolate, covered in cobweb thoughts spun thin; unclean, unused, unbrushed. The terrors if the basement of my brain too hard to face. The memories stored in mis-happen boxes; unlabelled, unorganized, unopened. And it will take days and years to purge myself of this space. It will days and years and broken dolls, black markers, old photographs, sun-bleached-fridge-posted-magnet-wrinkled-art, too small and too big clothing, notes from my grandfather and his wife – never received or never sent – because it will take days and years to make this space constructive. No one knows my possessions – the printed pages, stained and weathered by my fingers grasp and the salt of each time I held them and remembered and wept until I filed them from myself deep in the chambers of nothing where I keep secrets from myself. And in the attic are secrets of others. Not forgotten just buried under dust and boarded up windows that scream for light everytime I peek my head through the doorway to see that there are no ghosts. No ghosts that I clandestinely wish were there to seek their revenge or confess their sins, but all that’s left are the imprints of my imagination like disfigured footprints on the grey ground. The imagination that brings alive the things kept under ground of what now strangers never told me and I am lost, lost, lost. But I open old trunks filled with skins of who I used to be and try them if for size. I play pretend with feelings of the past; in broken mirrors that caused me more than seven year of bad luck because there is nothing that can act as an emollient for my need for things to be how I wish they were. And when I tire I lay down in blankets of old nightmares and pretend that their your arms holding me instead beause, really, it’s the same thing. It’s all the same thing. The unwritten books under the creaky stairs and the worn out skins in broken dressers; paper thin in the thighs, too tight in the soul, loose in my control. Torn up sheets covering the outline of some places I may have been, open from when I screamed your name, and called his with the conviction that the jealousy it could create would bring you back. But I know you are lost as I am lost, in your own attic reading the words you could have wrote, flipping through pictures of memories never made, but at least you have that. The would haves and should haves. I’m left with the could haves and if I maybes and the tears and pain and I will never unboard these windows because I don’t need to shed light on what I can’t see, I already see enough of what I dread, and although the shadows scare me the dream that you’re still hiding in them is enough for me to bear it.