being stoic (or this is how you remind me)

its the fear
of the glass bottles with their black and white testimony on the shelf
of the diffuser with its potent combination of pungent oil and spice
of the stuffed animal perched above me, smiling
of the wooden bracelet adorned with pagan icons
of the photograph that makes me smile and makes me cry in the same instant
of the journal beside my bed that i haven't written in in three days
of the poster laying prostrate on the floor that will soon adorn my wall
of the bear
and the ring
and the charm
and the message
and the door hanger
and the red book
and the movie
and the book
and the box

its the fear
of a day when i realize that all these things would have to go
for me to eliminate the only feeling i have left
and try to remember what it was like
to be stoic.