Around her room, the little shards of her lives are stored, collected. Some heaped like dust under the bed. Some stacked like pyres against the corners, just waiting for a match to be lit. Some hanging on the walls, not quite pretty pictures but not coming down either. Others, she knew, were still buried deep in the closet, locked away by the force of desperation. One day she will have to sort through them.
J.D. Harms