pastel boxes at the foot of a bed. and books stacked, misplaced thoughts. afar, the books, rusty. slathered on top- lacquer shell and only in the closest distance, their passage, cognizant. Written inside, scenes forgotten to regret. stuffed inside a body, the tissue overflowed & spilled out into a low, dry, humming abyss. These things eat the mind, guilt (like confetti) expelled into the contents of the pastel boxes at the foot of the bed. Rarely, stumbling blocks. Concrete, at that. Papier-mâché. Story of a girl’s stale memories. fresh paint(ed) emotion sloshes inside. A funnel, small/poignant/important. & as paint, duration wears its face down. Old, Shine, Through. Immaturity : lack for directional spirit, lost/frozen thoughts. the girl wonders, spine-numbing. thoughts on thoughts of other thoughts. the melding of iniquity, protrusive reputation trails like a stench. The hidden drawer holds no secret, but an echo of who belonged to the body that tends to open it here and there. And fill it, again, with black. The drawer thinks out loud to itself, will I burn myself alive? Fahrenheit 451. remove my existence, this body- angered and hollow. And then, drifts again to remember, one’s past is shape-shifting. It’s importance—lowly to some, but Oh, the rather peculiar (monolithic) magnanimity of its breathing. heavy, shallow, breaths. caverns shaken inside the intestines, uneasy recall. without the drawer, the girl- not herself, rather a fictional story. Filling blank (white) pages backwards, a scratched complexion. ripping away, no carbon copies. Carbon. And solid. So, not to come from the past, but forwards to it. like light, I, the girl, must run towards. I prepare myself for departure. the Voices, loud & clear. This is redemption.