The Receptacle of Everything Unsalvageable

I, too, am the receptacle of everything unsalvageable, unwound dreams circulate in the vessel of me. Deposit in me: your dead ends, scrapped projects and lost lists. I am the expanding hole in your nylon tights, popping and stretching back over your bare skin. I am the faded jubilation shared with some extroverted stranger, sloppy intentions dissipated in cold morning air. I am the space between the mouths of your bickering parents. Deposit in me: the words you should have said, the long glance you did not return, the mold on leftovers from some beautiful meal made for you and not eaten. I am the blackened bottom of a neglected pot, the cracks running all through your grandmother's old dishes. I am the invisible aching hole in your slick tooth. Deposit in me: the health crumbled and dissipated into your unfaithful body, the naivete that you outgrew along with your high school jeans. I am the dream that slips away in the blue light of dawn, the sick brown leaves of a shriveled plant, dry as bone.

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