stacks of paper

The yard was big. Then they took a chunk out of it. And surrounded fence with single-family homes. They left the chunk there though. Eventually it would be shaped and decorated and admired. But for months it was dirt. And some of those days it was mud. Mud that caked my skin, covered my eyes, and kept me from slipping away.

The room was small. They painted it colors and made sure it would stay. There were locks on the doors, doors for the closets, spaces under the beds, but those things soon stopped working. I cut little notches into the carpet in a corner of the room. And everyday they sewed it back together and took a picture.

It was boxes. Then it was bags. Then it was trunks. And cases. And casts. And books. And characters that were supposed to be apart of your life. The bags turned into baggies. The boxes turned into coffins. The books turned into stacks of paper.

So I building a home of things I know. I brought a window to look out of and a mirror to look into. There is a door knocker to replace the bell. There are no doors. The floors are made from the wooden shelves that held books, cups, records, and trophies. The one set of curtains is from the map of the world my grandparents used to have. It is going to have a fireplace fueled by pictures I haven't yet thrown away. And a bar.