That book I got for my tenth birthday,
The fancy fountain pen that was proof that good results pay;
My right to call you princess,
Certain inside jokes few can access,
All are mine.

My copy of Matilda, dog-eared from an age before I had learnt how to preserve books
The watch I’ve been wearing since middle school.
A bunch of letters in my drawer, from the time before I had grown used to losing friends.

A badge, that gave me my identity in my school,
A flower hair-pin, the first hair jewel I called my own.

A pack of cigarettes, a brand cheaper than the one my father smokes,
One single barbie, from piles of treasures that have come and gone.

A ratty teddy-bear, the only memory of my first relationship,
Five bottles of nailpaint, one of my less awesome birthday gifts.

The hard bound copies of war and peace, count of Monte cristo and David Copperfield, my father’s contributions in my need for good reads.

Five sets of brand new Highlighters, that I didn’t know I needed till my sister moved out,
A hard disc full of movies, and sad short novels whose storyline petered out.

Three padded bras, for what-ifs and maybes, and matching lace underwear, because they are wardrobe necessities.

Two pair of stilettoes, that nurse all my too short misgivings,
A half-empty bottle of single malt whisky.

Things that are exclusively mine, and nobody else could ever want or need.
Things I won’t share, or ever give you a chance to keep.

Even for someone who has no regard for souvenirs,
I have a list of things, that I hold dear.
These are my anchors, the chords that keep my afloat in a cauldron of mental despair.

The signs of life,
of one I had, and might have tomorrow,
Devoid of significance everywhere, except in my heart’s little hollow.


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