I got a box in the mail, all pictures
inside— Aged nicotine tint against the
memories I’d find.
I peeled back the top— couldn’t
wait to look inside. There was
missing many faces; seems some
memories have died.
From dead heads she clipped, the
names she’d never redeem. Not to
mourn, not to forget— To salt my
fevered dream.
I drove through memory like a high-
speed thief. No brakes, all gas. For
proof, for relief.
I gripped a 60-bend going 85,
centered gravity to prove I’m alive. It
didn’t matter if I made it out— or lost
control and died.
I owned the curve like a vow
professed, rubber screaming against
the past. The box still open, no faces
to confess. I drove through memory
like glass.
Not to survive, not to be seen— just to
prove my hum was serene. I’ve been
under siege since I was a seed— So I
carved this blackout scream.