Little Scraps of Paper

i document my feelings on little scraps of paper.
i have them tucked away in dark secret spaces,
wondering if any words can truly paint
an accurate picture of who i am.

the little scraps of paper are turning yellow.
the lead is fading and the ink smearing.
some of it is so light i can't read it anymore.
when the words disappear,
does part of me vanish with them?

i have written my life down.
sentences strung together haphazardly.
misspellings abound and i don't recall some of the emotions at all.
will anyone care that i felt so small?

i've built a papier-mache empire.
i surround myself with pens and post-it notes,
hoping to capture the elusiveness of my soul.
my pre-occupation with me prevents me
from forming meaningful attachements.
at least that's what a therapist told me long ago.

i spend hours speaking to the dead inside my head.
i'm trying to remember a forgotten friend.
i stand in the kitchen hoping to expose a fear,
but i end up eating chocolate
and writing on a napkin how i hope i choke.

i realize my little scraps of paper won't save me.
but i can't stop myself from adding to them.
when i die i want to be buried in a suit
made out of these little scraps of papers.
then i can review them with saint peter
as he decides if my immortal soul belongs in either heaven or hell.