The Dirty Room

In my room, pieces of myself litter the floor.  Throwaways, ignored and trampled to unrecognition.  I would pick them up, but the task of collecting them and categorizing them are too great, too final and so I must allow them to lie there in plain view, tattered clues and reminders of who I am, was , might have been, might be. A goldfish box whispers "mama".  A roll of tape yells "nurse". Pens, writing pens, pencils, notebooks and migrate, torn an faded journal pages firmly state "writer"...