My dresser

What a strange thing, my dresser. An autobiography written in a language only I understand.

An Iraqi toy frog given to me by a father I haven’t spoken to in months. I keep the frog for its reminder that things weren’t always this way.

An empty, dust covered piggy bank sitting next to a pile of fake doubloons and tiny ingots I found scattered around a submarine.

Thick winter gloves in the middle of a heatwave in Spring, once resident to the operations floor of a vast abandoned factory. I fell through a flight of rotting stairs to find them.

Above the dresser, a canvas painted for a boyfriend that is not me, donated so that he may avoid the mental quicksand that is her very essence.

A gambling token from a casino I’ve never seen, gifted by a heroine addict I befriended during our shared time in a psych ward. A reminder that even Hell has a sliver of Heaven.

A speeding ticket that would have been a great deal more expensive if the officer hadn’t been a family friend.

To the world, worthless. To me, worth the world.

Edited: Made some suggested changes to content

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8bogr4/comment/dxcgrou?st=JFZ5DC9H&sh=802a90d0 https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8busa0/comment/dxcgoem?st=JFZ5G5SB&sh=f20bc273