frozen clocks
mausoleum
time stands still in my mother’s house. a capsule of perpetual decay festering inside the matted carpet under my bare feet. the smell of rot sinks into my skin. the air don’t even move in this old house. it hangs between her closed eyes and mine like makeshift doors, my old bedsheets nailed to the peeling trim. all the clocks stay silent within these walls. she always rips their backs wide open and pulls the alkaline life clean out of them. she can’t stand the sound of time creeping in.
your voice is always so distinct in your work. i listened to the recordings of your poetry a couple times and now i hear your voice in everything you post it’s so awesome
We used to use thumbtacks to put the bedsheets up for dividers, but same thing.
I love this piece, love the subtitle, and I'm envious of the photo 🩶🩶🩶