Mess

I never throw anything away.
Pictures from playgroup dumped
in the backs of cupboards
hoarded felt-like rumples crossed
with greasy crayon marks.

I keep poems about roses
from before I could spell
or write joined up in small blue
books Dad stole from work.

All the toys I had, broken colours
dusty stories they wove
in a chest with broken hinges
and every soft toy I cried over
alone tastes of salt even now.

I have no memory you see
of things, events, just
emotions that never heal
so feel this NEED to keep
evidence of the past, proof
that I existed I guess, as
all my school reports said
I have imagination and
the trouble is knowing
what is real or a gap fill:
this most call mess is bricks
in a wall against forgetfullness

But now I have a computer
can chat on the internet then
SAVE the words, the flow
of thought the building
of knowing someone.

And I wonder, I wonder
now I don't know you anymore
if I should delete your mails
I loved to get, if I could then
forget this mess my life's become
start again, or if in the future
rereading them I'll smile
as I did the first time, because
I'll have forgotten the pain