Baggage

There's always my phone, tucked in my back pocket.

Chained down, dragging me, tethered to this Earth, connected, connected, connected, to everything - but floating, far away, can't see, blind and disconnected, disconnected, disconnected, from real.

I never used to carry keys around, I didn't have a car and lived at home. Still don't have a car, but my job requires me to carry a lot of keys. None of them belong to my house where I live alone. They sit on a clip on my belt, most of the time.

The clash of their metal bodies always in my ears, WHERE ARE MY KEYS, move, my hands are shaking and I can't find the right one, "you don't lock your house?", there's no point, stuck and stationary, still no car keys, so many things to unlock but still so locked up.

My wallet is often in my backpack, not on my person. It's the same wallet I've had for eight years, the first one I bought. As a teenager, I only carried cash in it. Then cards started to accumulate, and now it's so stiff and worn out, and I couldn't tell you half of the things that fill it.

Junk, junk, junk, where's my wallet, doesn't matter I can use my phone now, it reminds me of years ago, how is it still together, how is it holding on, the threads are bare and the leather sticky, I should get a new one - why, this one still works just fine.

My pocket knife joins my keys on my belt. I need it for work sometimes.

It's sharp, how sharp, let's see... oh god it, it, it - it's perfect for cutting the boxes - don't bring it with you, you're so obvious, but I need it for work, do I really, why did I buy it, it's pretty, it's sharp, like her and her and her, why am I not that way anymore?