At sixteen I started to scribe.
Honest depictions of my mental works
flooded the space, and were left in a
corner, protected by shadows.
Depictions of after school meals, in my lonesome bedroom.
Music dancing through the room, between rays of
sunshine which baked my bed, making it scream to
be flipped like a Saturday morning pancake.
These memories were frozen as statues, to be admired
at any given moment. Collections grew and, as always,
expected to stay put. They didn't, and like anything
that's expected to be around, they're nowhere to be found.
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