I will be sold at a yard sale.
One day, I will be gone. I won’t post anymore, I won’t clean around the house, I won’t buy anything, I won’t see my friends. Parts of me will still be around, but I will no longer use them. My makeup will be left untouched, my clothes will wrinkle in my drawers, my bed will still have the shape of me. But I will be gone
I will be gone until the parts of me slowly start to move. Into boxes, garbage bags, and eventually onto a dusty table. I will be left waiting to move again, an old wooden desk with paint and nail polish stains. A child may pick me up, play with me and beg their mother for the old teddy bear. But I will be left again.
I will be the lucky thrift find an alternative teenager finds while out with their friends. I will be the discarded bookshelf on the side of the street. My books will be found at the bottom of the thrift bins, torn apart from the weight of my collectibles and toys. My social media will go dead, losing followers, the only people remaining my friends and family.
I will be gone. But I will be found in the parts of my identity I scattered around my messy room. The writings I hoped gained attention, the mediocre art that I was never proud of, but still seeked validation for. The memories of mistakes, dreams, conversations.
I’ll be gone, but I will cling to the world with whatever I left behind.
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And, I hope I found someone’s past. I hope the old quilt I found at the thrift was made with love. I hope everything I have gotten second-hand now has a story. I thank the person before me that used these brushes. I pray for the soul that left behind those gorgeous – and surprisingly well fitting – heels. They are gone now, or their life is moving on elsewhere, but I carry them with me. I honor them and how they have affected my life.
I hope to pass it on.
