Britney

When I slip, it is hard and sudden. It is a revolving door into the memory bank and I am a donor in desperate need of transfusions in quick succession. I look up and I see my mother’s face shining in full smile regalia. Feels like morphine turned chemo.

FROM THE FLOOR: I can see it all. There is no end anymore. I wonder if there ever was.

FROM THE TOP: Death is like being on the ceiling of the Sistine. I’d rather be a screw-up than a voyeur.

FROM THE INSIDE: Comfort comes for moments but I want seconds. Being an only child has made me greedy. Being the only survivor has left me starved. Old pictures don’t feel real. I wonder what plane they belong on now. I try to join them and I look like a fool-ess struck by nostalgia.

FROM HERE: What am I doing??? ♦