Hoarding Apologies

Dear KonMari,
  
I assent — I read your book, all of 224 pages intro to afterword  
cover to cover, staring at your gentle smile, assuring life changes by    
sheer magic of tidying up what contains, sustains within a shell —  
   
but an empty room is just empty    
beneath a transparent sky  
in a body, heart, mind  
a handful of dirt  
in a box  
surrounded by alabaster walls echoing echoes with persistence and    
insistence of unexplainable desire, insatiable itch blurring the line    
between needs and wants.    
   
Filled and refilled with things and objects, objectifying memories, lovers,  
daughters, sons, sound, void, warmth long gone shrouded within frayed    
threads of wrinkled time.    
   
I am the excess of exuberance, swallowing the moon and sun whole  
laying on a pile of ruins; skin and bones, asking to undo what’s done.  
These artifacts I caress so lovingly with secrets in their scent,    
flourish roots under my feet and I feed them golden tears to harvest    
grapes of wrath.  
   
The wastelands are bulging with maggots feeding on salt of the earth    
wending from consumerism veins of hypocrisy, rejecting leathery fruits    
of superfluity.  
While I collect the floury dust kneading into a dough, breaking bread  
with logic.  
   
Apologies!    
   
Miss Kondo  
I cannot discard a single thing  
because,  
I need to make love to something.