the memories are pulled from my mouth as i walk in the door
lavender scented
sick and dripping
i gag hello
and they swear the mirrors in the same spot
so it must be my face that moved
two inches to the left
and they swear they’re all speaking the same
so it must be this creeping pressure in my head
making everything sound underwater
or, perhaps,
it is just harder to hear them over the screaming voices than it used to be
you’ve outgrown this place
are you okay?
do not get stuck here
I think so.
the memories coughed from my mouth are splattered on the wall
forming pictures that seem to change from one minute to the next
i do not care to decipher them
i am lost in the voyeuristic haze of remembrance
cataloguing every detail that has changed
and composing essays on why it used to be better
the tether attaching me to this place grows taut
every step i take pulls me back
every swallow tastes of you’ve changed
you’ve grown up
a voice, spitting
don’t forget us when you’re out there
i won’t
how could i?
Behind the Writing
“Going home to the people and places you know never feels the same after you leave. I wanted to try to embody the discordance that comes with returning to a place you’ve since moved on from.”
Jenna Zaidan (IG: @jennazaidan)
Writer To Writer Literary Journal 