I am a remembrance, pieces of unknown places I wish to forget. Instead, the old threads
are stiff to protrude. I scratch until I bleed until all bone is aware until the quilt no
longer covers my cold feet. I shut my eyes, scared of the degrees that my dreams will be.
Will it repeat the battle with the Wicked Witch, or will they be the dark stories I alone
have drawn? I am also the unraveling you find when you rip open a gift, the wrapping
paper left under the tree only to miss. Poems are hidden under the staircase of my spine,
filling me with the courage to face the monsters hiding there. And in the sea full of
parchment, I am the ink (oil) spill, but in this story, the birds are saved.
