While flecks of dust 
are dancing around in this 
cluttered room, 
I’m rushing to fill a bag  
too small for everything. 
Stuck between 
leaving this place  
and heading somewhere, 
don’t know where I am now 
nor where I am going. 
Foes wait at the door – 
their pressure weighs heavy on me 
I am Rodin’s Caryatid 
carrying all this weight, 
weary yet resilient. 
Or am I Newton’s cradle – 
moving but not going anywhere 
Determined to declutter – 
I can’t leave these souvenirs. 
My neck creaks towards the past while 
facing blindly to the future 
I’m stuck here carrying on  
ad infinitum 
               I ask you to bring your shoes 
               You tell me to leave them 
               as you leave, 
               leaving me perplexed 
               as my knuckles turn white 
               not leaving these things 

I’d rather be a bag lady 
than a person without 
memories. 

               ​If I open my eyes 
I’ll disappear from this place. 
Find the perfect moment 
when the breeze melts under the sun, 
scatter me amongst the Tuscan sunflowers 
and I’ll be free

---

British-Filipino-American Thea Buen (she/her) is a California native living in London, UK. Her work primarily focuses on identity, immigration, nostalgia, and mental health. She's currently working on her first novel, Sleep the Clock Around. She's recently been published in Nymphs Publications and Untitled: Voices. Be her friend on Instagram @thea.buen or Twitter @theabuen.

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header image: Caroline Selfors via Unsplash