These are the things which belong to me:
A spider suspended in a cobweb
That lies in the corner of my room
Waiting each day to greet me
When I come home with a silent hello.
A fake flower in a waterless vase
With a single counterfeit dew drop
Balancing on the end of a synthetic leaf
Like a tear drop that will never fall.
A painting of a woman half finished
Hanging over my bed at night
My guardian angel watching over my dreams
The dream like visage of who I might be.
A horseshoe above my doorway
That hangs upside down
The luck has all fallen out
Of its open face.
A crumbled up piece of paper
With the semblance of words
Written and re-written
Only to be crossed out.
A picture of myself with friends
Who have gone yet still remain
Faces that have so very changed
Yet I still feel the same.
A piñata’s head from years ago
Emptied of candy and color
Once prized and cherished
Now looked at as trash.
A picture of a woman
Who does not know me
But I feel I know her
From another past life.
These things that I call mine
Don’t belong to me at all
They own me like their coveted doll
Just an object, a thing.
Yet still, these are the things which I call my own.
