Whenever I want to add beauty
to memories of growing up
The tulips grew apart from each other that Spring. The ground cracked and crumbled in ways that I’d never seen before.
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Bath so hot I can’t get in
That album-game over to pretending to want to go out
It seems like everyone is writing poetry about the last days, about paranoia and
musings of what will come. I have run
out of milk and the grocery store is
business as usual, just a five minute
walk in melting snow.
For the most part, the notebooks filled with decade old scribbles, collecting dust in the closet of my childhood bedroom, are illegible. What can be deciphered of my highschool years are angst fueled rambles, longings for places I had never been and listless poems for women who may or may not have existed.
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