Like sitting on top of a pile of mixed clean and soiled laundry, waiting for an outfit to wrap itself around me so I can start my day — I’m an undressed mess of stories, some need folding and some need sorting, and I’m too tired of naked waiting to tell the difference. 

My ideas used to mound like blueberry pancakes. 

blueberry pancakes

drowned in sticky sweet maple

and stacked a mile high

My plans used to unstick like soft, unsalted butter or sweet puppy dreams.

puppy dreams melt like

first kisses: tender, fleeting,

and unrepeating

I used to think I could hide the clutter of my mind by spreading it out, but now

it’s all too many sets of too little words tucked into tight corners with far too little room to breathe … nobody can breathe when there’s crusting socks and globs of fat and dusty crumbs and staling flakes of puppy breath all over the floor.