Snapshots
I don't drink my drinks in small sips I slurp them mouthful at a time And slosh them across my mouth With bulging cheeks and pouted mouth Once Twice Then gulp them down with an audible sound, Ugghp Ringing inside my head While I try to decipher who else noticed it or who turned. My messy table always yells in my mother's sweet shrill voice "Clean it up", "It's not hygienic", "It's not nice", And each time I first scowl at myself Then take my hands towards my things, Shifting and scouring through them, A smile slowly budding up with scrunched up eyebrows, Yet couldn't ever bring myself to remove them from the table Every scrap, every tin foil, every wrapper, every medicine, every book, every bottle, every coin contains within themselves a need, a requirement Some physical, some emotional, but a requirement nonetheless. My backpack contains the world within itself, Bits and parts of my experiences, my things, my memories, my identity