So foreign to me: the idea of remembering
I want to hold on to the past and understand it for the future
But it blurs like speckled sand on photographs taken with my mind.
Sandy stairs ascend to anywhere, but a tropical getaway.
Fish swim the bathroom and palm trees breeze the rooftop,
But I still can’t remember the facts like
How many pushes did it take to break the shell of the hermit crab’s home?
Or like why did the seagull eat the baby turtle struggling to reach sea?
Or was the cabana ever really home or was that fake too?
I want to hold the remote control because it should be my simulation
It aims to play my memories, but it distorts reality like frosted glass meets panic, so waves thrash trauma against jagged rocks to create pretty rainbows.
See, I can remember french toast steam clouds and the distance it took to float away from myself, but I can’t remember if I ever said anything. Or did anything useful.
Was I just another volcanic rock thrown against high tides?
I want to know what happened because it’s frustrating not being able to seperate my dreams from my nightmares.
Waking up every night questioning reality.
And if my beaches are really spear-slicing fish guts onto a rock
And roasting dinner.
Meatloaf:
Just like that needs an explanation. Who even likes meatloaf? Why is it in this poem?
There’s no place for meatloaf on MY beach
I need the remote to remind myself of three years of life cast away.
But I think what I really want to know:
Did you really happen or was that another nightmare too?