irrelevant

a collection of notebooks,
ink-bled and lead-smeared,
sits in an unlabeled box
somewhere downstairs

young hope,
occasional rage,
two degrees,
at least one fiancé,

can't bring myself
to pitch them, but my god,
the capacity for shame,

overshadowed
by fragmented remains
of a personal history,
my neglect

in the dark,
no thought of revision,
just a final trip
to the curb