less than backslash three

I have a junk drawer for a heart

plagued with the vicious impulse

of constantly re-organizing

the miscellaneous objects

collected over the years

as photographs and love notes are

tucked safely at the bottom,

the little knick-knacks of my soul

thrash about fading and

denting the once new surface

of the revolving door that is

my personality, the only constant:

a little box filled with self-destruction

adorning my pale, glass skin with

eternal cracks of grief and shame