"The Closet" by Anisha Bodapati

The Closet 

I’ve been trying to clean out the closet. 

The chicken scratch from the toddler I had been; with horrendous spelling and horrifying grammar but imagination that couldn’t be bothered by either. 

The tiny teeth from when the tooth fairy was broke. 

The dusty remnants of notebooks with mockery in its final pages. 

The wristbands and tracks from when I had the time to be physically active. 

The memories and dried out roses, and pens I’ve never used. 

The different personalities held at the back, somewhere in its wooden boards. 

The dried out nail polish from when I bit every last millimeter of its canvas and replaced it with bloody cuticles. 

Gifts from a tiny admirer from school, who is turning out to be more like me every day, much to my joy and her mother’s dismay. 

This time I reach for the textbooks with very bad language scribbled in the margins. Some words mine, and the others in three distinct styles that I recognize. 

Notebooks either full of information, or of bored doodles and miniature masterpieces of classroom art. 

Scores of books that I’ve read and revered behind dozens that I have yet to read. 

At the front, a wisdom tooth I was weird enough to keep.

At the back, somewhere in Narnia,

There is still a part of me.

                                                                   - Anisha Bodapati (BtCFs)