Moving (im going to publish this pls give feedback!)

[uncut umbra]

My parents told me to help pack.
We’re moving.

I wrap the cups and plates
with newspaper that reads:
“John’s Haunted House - NOW OPEN”

I am not moving yet.
Maybe tomorrow.
Until then
I will just pack.

To Bring:

• Pepper
• Cinnamon
• Oregano
• Cardamom
• Star anise

The empty box beside the door
I place down in the living room.

I pack the framed family portrait.
I pile in the rest of the loose mementos
collected over the years.

Into my backpack:
the perfume I always wear,
a substitute for
the expensive stuff
I hope to afford
someday.

I add all of my clothes to the suitcase
with my favourite sweater at the top.

All the clothes that I've outgrown
lie in a pile waiting to be donated.
Maybe another kid can wear these
and learn from everything I hadn’t.

Everyone says:
“Your brain makes everything
scarier than it actually is”

Still,
I hate this house.

[limber belfry]

I'll say your poem was too literal, and that you lack rhythm or rhymes. But if that's how you like your poem will be then i have no problem with it. Mayb add more metaphors about your emotions for the old house?

[midnight hearth]

Hmmm

Lemme think

This is a hauntingly beautiful, grounding piece of writing. You have captured the specific, tactile nature of grief and transition—how the act of packing becomes a ritual of shedding one's past.