Inside the Cabinet

By Kelly Grace Thomas


These are the things I keep inside the cabinet in my kitchen:

Spices, who man the front row.

Peanut butter and cakes mixes I’ll never use,

but it is fun to pretend.

Pretend I’m someone else, someone you love

who eats confetti icing in a little black dresses after black tie invitations

who can't remember the last time she invited guilt over and laughs every time

you try to dance in the kitchen, but gives in, every time.

In the cabinet I keep the

paper towel you drew your masterpiece on,

I have been careful

 to fold its edges, to smell your promises upon quilted fabrications.

A rare artifact.

Next to it, I keep the note that said you were leaving.

And next to that,

my pride,

my heart.

All crowded inside that cabinet, so dark. Without air.

I keep bananas that I buy in an effort to force myself to like the

five for a dollar, cardboard mush.

I keep napkins that say thank you in French.

Remembering the night I climbed the Eiffel Tower, on a dare, after too much Chardonnay

I keep bad habits like interrupting someone because I’m scared they don’t understand.

They maybe never will.

I keep a list of all the other things I don’t like about myself.

And read it before I go to sleep 

and when I wake up in the morning.

I keep empty eggs cartons that promise I will paint once again.

And the memory of how you smelled in the morning,

a mixture of dream and pine needles.

The way your hair felt like a rabbit fur when it brushed against my shoulder.

I keep a new beginning in a box in that cabinet.

I haven’t opened it yet, but look at the expiration date everyday.