I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. - Sylvia Plath
The wrinkled, wintered face with intense eyes
stares at the peeling plaster, looking for the source
of the sound, the scratching and snapping, that was before
only played during the nighttime; when most children are having
nightmares about bicycles. The mocking tune, a relic
of a past existence and other failures, brings to mind
the worst type of nostalgia; the sharp scent of blood
mixing with metal hangs dead in the suffocating stillness,
reminding us that we can’t help but be foreign. Memories of
Jesus and distress pour like venom, seizing truth
and distilling hope into bacon grease. Newspaper clippings
smeared with the filth of our anecdote taste like
burning and frowning impotence.
