i almost remember the house by its smell before i remember the rooms
i almost taste summer in the metal mouth of a garden hose
i almost hear screen doors slamming like small verdicts behind me
i almost see my mother’s hands in the dishwater, red and wrinkled, pulling up a chipped mug
i almost feel the vinyl seat burn the backs of my thighs in july
i almost become the kid again who caught lightning bugs in a jar and waited for them to die
i almost forgive the streetlights for coming on and ending everything
i almost hear someone calling my name from a porch i no longer know how to find
i almost believe the dead are only hiding in photographs
i almost touch the wallpaper with the tiny flowers nobody liked but everyone lived with
i almost smell cut grass. gasoline. the air going sour at dusk.
i almost remember the exact shape of my hunger before i learned how to call it discipline
i almost hear the radio playing in a kitchen where no one had yet poisoned the day
i almost see bare feet on linoleum and crumbs under the table
i almost feel the ache of wanting to be older. before age started taking things.
i almost remember the first boy who stared too long and didn’t blink
i almost laugh at the girl i was for thinking being noticed meant anything but trouble
i almost taste lip gloss and panic and cheap cherry candy
i almost hear my own heart thumping in the backseat of a car that smelled like cigarettes
i almost remember the dress i wore before i knew better
i almost smell rain coming through an open window before anyone closed it
i almost feel the damp towel of childhood wrapped around my shoulders
i almost hear dogs barking three houses down as if warning the future
i almost see the moon caught in a puddle after a hard storm
i almost believe every version of myself is still standing somewhere waiting for me
i almost reach for the girl with scraped knees and tell her the body remembers every fall
i almost tell her wanting gets heavier and harder to name
i almost tell her men will think softness means yes
i almost tell her to keep something. don’t open the door every time.
i almost remember the bedroom. silence colder than the sheets.
i almost smell stale air rising from curtains when the afternoon leaned through them
i almost hear cassette tapes clicking over like little mechanical prayers
i almost see my old handwriting trying to become a person on notebook paper
i almost feel shame burning behind my ears. still here.
i almost taste birthday cake and dread on the same plastic fork
i almost remember everyone younger than they meant to be
i almost hear laughter from another room and want back into it
i almost see a table full of people who did not know they were disappearing
i almost understand why memory stays in the kitchen.
i almost understand why grief keeps its shoes by the door
i almost feel the body of the past breathing beside me in bed
i almost hate it for staying so warm
i almost love it for staying at all
i almost hear the old song and feel something sharp under my ribs
i almost open my mouth and out comes the whole decade
i almost hold every lost thing without crushing it
i almost let the girl i was climb into my lap
i almost stop apologizing for how long i needed to live
i almost become gentle with the evidence
i almost let memory sit still instead of standing trial
i almost forgive the years for eating what they could
i almost bless the pain because it proves something was here
i almost turn toward the past without asking it to love me back
i almost reach for the girl i used to be
i almost tell her we finally made it out
i almost forget she didn’t come with me
i almost hear her ask what it cost
i almost open my mouth to answer
i almost figure out how to lie
Support on Ko-Fi: help keep the almost museum open. admission is free. upkeep is emotionally unreasonable.