the coldest parts are when my mind registers the void the empty i can’t explain i knew something mattered to me but i can’t place it, long-term amnesia in a short-term span and there’s no way home mother i want to go home. but i can’t go home so i look for that yellow rug that repeats itself in dreams, carpets every memory from my grandparents’ house on butler ave (the windows, something red, lanterns, books) to my first apartment (s. baton rouge), and your house, emptied for demolition (the sage walls, something still glints in the closet where we carved our names into the molding) these places. dead. somewhere to hide, crumbling by the minute, forgetting, non-existence.
a collection of collage work and poems that explores the space between dreams and reality.