Museum of A Former Life Opens in Local Girl's Bedroom
Falling into the house on the Tuesday,
Outside crumbling, an iceberg of Looking-Forward-Tos melting in the Winter sun,
Holding my back to the door to steady myself against the dawn of collapse, inexistence seeming rife on the horizon.
This room has become a museum of a time Before.
Hair grips in a tin
All redolent of Normalcy, horrifically mundane, innocently dull.
I carve a circle into the layer of dust atop my alarm clock. Never to be hit again.
Bits of thread torn off a suit jacket
Missing the splitting antecedence of early mornings, muddy ankles on the way to school, tachycardia on the train platform.
Each time I enter, I am hit with the taste of a Next Week that never quite happened.
Everything lain, performatively formulated, to be thrown into a strange, foreign Tomorrow-
but these never arrived and I'm left
with a gallery
of Real Life.
Right now everything I own feels abstract and strange, like an artefact left over from a war or buried in ruins. Perhaps historians will use my bedroom in the future, to ascertain what happened here.