You still have a necklace
made of plastic beads
from a girl you thought you loved.
You have a rubber band you stole
from your best friend's wrist
before you stopped talking.
You haven't touched your Rubik's Cube
since the last girl you had over
turned the tiles
into a flower.
This is not a metaphor.
You keep these memories
stored in material things
on a shelf.
This is not a metaphor.
Your closet is full of bottle caps
from the glass containers you shattered
in self-hatred.
This is not a metaphor.
You find these relics
when you clean your room
or search for a flashlight,
you clutch them to your chest
and sob
for lost love.
This is not a metaphor.
You say you can't get rid of them,
you're too scared of forgetting,
but remembering breaks your heart
more than the event you're looking back at.
This is not a metaphor.
You are destroying yourself.
You say you can't live
with all these regrets,
you say you don't want to go on.
**This is not a metaphor.