You became an adult right after the barter,
You should remember it,
But your memory failed at the first handshake,
and it sailed away with the ship’s stern,
Like every other thing after that.
You became a dirty cloth,
Whose stains are phantom than crater,
One that has now matched your skin,
Like a chameleon with its status.
So you don’t feel the fabric
Because you do not have strength left for the weakness it has become.
Now you turn to the air,
Hoping it will see you,
That it sweeps the mould off you,
Cleanses you of yesterday’s filth,
Of tomorrow’s slop,
You hope that this invisible substance/becomes the route/to the light/that is the only story your memory ever tells.