The Museum of Broken Things

Inside my chest

there’s a museum.

Glass cases full of memories

I pretend not to visit.

A laugh preserved in dust.

A promise labeled

fragile.

Sometimes at night

I walk the halls alone

reading the plaques:

Here lies the moment

you should have left.

Here lies the version

of you that trusted too easily.

The admission price

is remembering.

I pay it often.

-𝕃ℝ 🖤