I'm feeling a little fragile,
like my bones are porcelain teacups
locked in the attic of a condemned house
next to china plates bought for a wedding no one went to.
My hands are shaking,
stirring up the dust and startling the moths
that have eaten away at the clothes
in a trunk bound with mummified leather.
I blink away tears,
but I'm looking through a water streaked window
of thick, warped, antique glass
in a weathered wooden hoop frame.
My thoughts are collapsing
with the diary in the corner that crumbled
into secret-laden dust that sprinkled like ash
over pretty little doll faces cracked with ag.
I'm feeling ancient,
like I'm living in black and white film
and sepia photographs that fall to pieces between my fingers
when I venture into my grandmother's attic.