Don’t Look In My Secret Places

A ditty about the hot messes we hide in life’s weird crevices

I desperately want this dude to be my best friend. Image by wayhomestudio on Freepik

From the outside, I look like I have a charmed life and am the pinnacle example of put together. I have a cushy stay-at-home job as a writer, a pretty garden for curb appeal, and a clean and organized home.

My counters are in such apple-pie order that TradWives would be jealous of my aesthetic.

But look beneath the surface and the vision is shattered. My poverty-stricken career choice is only the beginning. Underneath my tidy facade are stacks of whatchamacallums, piles of hootenanny, and an entire discombobulation of doojiggers.

You can see the cracks by looking in my secret places.

No, not there. Pervert.

Look in my secret places—and you’ll find the pockets of life where I secretly store my hot mess-ness. I penned a witty little ditty about my occult space, so you can see where the wild things grow…

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*Ahem.

I’m put together mainly
my life, tied in a bow plainly
but behind the vainly is the ungainly
in the tracks and the cracks
are the earwax and snacks

Tucked away in my secret places
in the traces and spaces
omnishambles of a trainwreck
rambled scrambles at breakneck

In the hidden spaces I look to suppress
in the camouflaged traces where I fail to impress
Toot toot, all aboard…my hot mess express

My life is a perfect verse, except for my purse
a truly Mary-Poppins-style endless universe
doohickeys, whatchamacallits, and thingamabobs
hair ties, Cheerios, clean (probably) undies, and bed knobs

My life is idyllic decor, except for my junk drawer
cleaning the dang thing’s a major bore of a snore of a chore
another vast realm, like The Lion, Witch and Wardrobe
there’s pliers, a clown nose, and a keychain with a globe
stray buttons, my soul, and an uncooked piece of fusilli
and at the bottom, the remnants of what looked like chilli

My life is all well-planned, except for my nightstand
here are the things that may just get me banned
there’s lotion for my face and lube for my space
things with Bluetooth and attachments
outfits for all sorts of reenactments
and a wee little light to keep away the fright
of buzzing things that go bump in the night

My life is all whole, except for my car console
in the storage center-mass of my lil Kia that could
are the things that might make me a lil misunderstood
there’s bear spray that works equally fine on man
and WD-40 that lubes whatsamajiggys spick n span
there’s 90s-era Coca-Cola Lip Smackers and Calgon spritz
four errant, petrified french fries and crackers from Ritz

My life is in placement, except for my basement
a place so run amok it has time-space displacement
down there, hidden in the dark is the rest o’ the shame
whozeewhatzits and doodads without even a name
there’s VHS tapes without labels, a map of Narnia, and anti-matter
there’s a time machine, gremlins, and Jimmy Hoffa’s cadaver
there’s a lemur, a femur, and a lock of human hair
and the black box from Flight 370 of Malaysia Air

He found the goggles, t-shirt, and old swim cap in my basement. Image by wayhomestudio on Freepik

So no matter what it is you’ve been hiding in your life’s creepy crevasses
just remember you’re not more craptacularly bizarre than my weird ass is.

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We’re all hoarding freaks and geeks, in the dark, where the wild things grow.

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