Suitcases

I pack my ghosts in suitcases before

climbing the train.

The red one with the wheels,

that’s where his hands have lived

since the time they

touched me,

pushed me,

put a sweaty bone

against my mouth.

I don’t unzip him,

or dare to look inside.

Next to him, I’ve got a canvas bag:

Forest green with doubt,

I put a lock on this one.

Twisted and bitter like rhubarb pie,

he doesn’t live here, just

a shell of who he was,

slouched in a suitcase jail cell

like I was,

because I was the girl who

drank too much,

said sorry too much,

and gave a damn too little.

Because my knees were filled

with sand,

and I would not sink on them

so that he could feel

bigger.

The train passes without me.

#poetry