Decluttering

You left a mess for me to clean up on my own, and I'm still working through it.

Weeks later, the empty cans are still where you left them on the floor. Swiss cheese is growing mold in the fridge. The plants are dead on the window sill, but I threw out your loofa and took the pictures off the fridge.

I'm taking steps, picking up the mental clutter first this time. The love wasted on you evaporated, cycled through to water my growing independence, and it is blooming with newfound freedom.

The barriers built of "I can't" and "they won't let me" and "they'll be mad if I" have crumbled. New pathways have opened, and I am skipping along without your hands around my throat to keep me in place.

Every "I miss you" has reached a landfill by now, silently replaced by "thank you, good riddance" to match the new kettle that came in the mail.

All that's left is to fill a few trash bags and leave them with you and your carelessness on the curb.