I can’t help but feeling a past has been stolen as the memories are further stained and fixed, put to slide, and transferred to meme.
These memories are not my memories. Except when they are. With mendacity at every turn, what remains to be believed?
Turn to left. Turn to the right. Beep beep. My vandal feet forget the steps, lose the center and free-fall once again.
Where did we stow the missing link? Under the desks when we ducked and covered? Behind a flag carried from the alter? Listening at staircases, trying to stay undercover?
Where did we stash that part?
At lake bottoms, all of me sank — some never came up for air.