I came home to find my mother taping all of her poetry to the walls.
"I want you to be surrounded by truth," she kept saying, and I stared at the black and white that was indeed surrounding me. Truth? Her words were like knives, or guns – absolutely frigid: But always as beautiful as she was.
I took three pictures of our new walls when she went to the bathroom. I stared and stared until everything was blurry.
I dreamed of roses and daemons that night.