There Are Corpses In My Closet

Everywhere I go, the bright colors tempt me, like a dog to a bone. I want it all, to gorge on them like a feast until I am stuffed to the brim, threatening to spill over. Yet somehow, I am never full. I do not know when it began, but most likely when I was a small child. The colors taunted me and because I was always told “no”, I couldn’t help but want. I want, I want, I want. Fiercely and endlessly. 

It was candy, first. My tongue, my tastebuds always begging for something sweet to satiate a never-ending craving. At bedtime, I would tiptoe into my room, pant pockets filled with forbidden sweets, moving quickly and quietly so the cellophane wrapper wouldn’t make any discernible noise. As I heard the swift click of my parent’s bedroom door closing, I began to devour. Shoving mouthfuls of chocolate and confectionaries into my mouth, the sugar eradicating any remnants of mint toothpaste from my teeth. A wild animal, its prey a rogue Snickers bar. I couldn’t stop myself— impulse immediately took over. Five minutes, ten minutes pass. I am sick to my stomach, the insides of my mouth and stomach beginning to rot with guilt and the predicated regret of tomorrow. Silver wrappers littered under my bed, fresh evidence of my crime. Still, I am not full. I am not satisfied.

The abundance of everything offers the sweet relief of nothing. A lesson I did not learn as a little girl, a lesson I still haven’t seemed to learn. I traded my chocolates for stuffed animals. I made a best friend in each of them but always wanted more. How many friends does a girl need? For me, not enough. There was never enough. They now lie on top of each other in their graves in my childhood bedroom. There are corpses in my closet. Yet still, always wanting more. 

Journals, then. Scattered around every room in the house, crammed into my nightstand. All of them, half-written, half-filled with unfinished thoughts and untold stories. Characters brought to life who will never fulfill their destinies. Memories messily jotted down with half-truths, like someone pressed pause on a movie and will never remember to pick the remote back up. Laughter and recollections stranded in time. There are pieces of me shattered and sprinkled into the bounty of empty journals that hide in every corner of my life. This one, a packing list and a detailed account of my terrible day at work. Another one, the start of a story that died as soon as the ink hit the blank page, never to be read or passed along to anyone else. Pieces of me floating around everywhere. I pick them off the ground like apples from a tree, a bite taken out of each, curdling with fruit flies and maggots. 

Now, books and clothes. The closet in my childhood bedroom, a morgue for old friends. Here, in the city, it holds the decaying bodies of dresses and sweaters and pants I touched once and will never again. The fabrics and colors jeer at me everywhere I go— I want it all. I need it all. I am a drunk man, perception marred by all the alcohol I have consumed and everything is beautiful. But the next morning, the face lying beside mine is not the one I seem to remember speaking to the night before. I am in the stores, a drunk man. Every time I open the doors to my closet, open the drawers of my wardrobe, I am jolted awake to a stranger staring back at me. And still, I have not learned my lesson. I will continue to want, I will continue to convince myself that I need. 

Books, too. sitting underneath my windows, collecting dust. Piles on my dresser, stored in my nightstand. What a shame. Such beautiful writing begging to be read, such complex characters begging to be understood. Spines remain unbroken, pages aching to be flipped through. I can hear their screams like an incessant buzzing in my ear, but still, I pay no attention to them. My eyes can’t help but wander to bookshelves elsewhere, committing crimes of infidelity. My fingers drift along the edge of the covers, teasing them, torturing myself. I bring a couple home to add to my collection, always wanting more, always needing more. What a shame. These stories will never see the light of day. 

It is sickening. I binge on materialism like a prisoner on death row. I forego utensils and shove my hands straight into the thick chocolate cake, ravaging straight from my palms, licking every finger, not letting a drop go to waste. My books, my clothes, my toys, my jewelry, my hankering need to have more. Too much is never enough. I am slumped at the kitchen table; what once was heaping plates of gourmet meals are now empty with nary a crumb leftover. My jeans threaten to burst at the seams, and I am on the verge of regurgitating everything I have just consumed. Yet still, I am hungry. I need more. I want more. Will it ever be enough? What a sickness, what a shame.