Moving can suck my dick.
Under the first layer of clothes lies your sweaters and your shirts and your pants and all the things you bought me and that hurts but it's fine
Under that layer waits the layer of notebooks, journals, diaries, etc. from back when I wasn't Okay At All and starving to death and using Adderall religiously and drinking a pot of black coffee daily and there are scraps of muddled, drug-induced "creative" writing about the deaths of leaves and Satan as a dentist and a childhood study of Ed Gein, a composition book from the psych ward that I filled with the most cold, gray, sterilized thoughts
I remember now why I never cleaned my room
My closet is nearly empty now and I just want everything to disappear into boxes already, but I don't want to get back down on the floor with everything.