Book Thief taught me why painting is better than burning (books.)
Hamlet gave me a glimpse of grief, cutting the heart of tragedy with his poisoned rapier, where beads of things red and desperately human trickle forth. He helped me realize my dream of being king- king of nutshells and withered violet petals. 

Tris reminds me of myself, and Gatsby, too. 

Keegan’s car and Browne’s poems awkwardly sit in the corner; I see them as I walk back and forth down the halls, too busy to pick them up. My mind palace is a hoarder’s nest.



They make me, I paint them over, thick and
bubbly with memories.
Layers upon
layers, now a
sculpture.
What’s me and what’s not?