Before the darkness
I,
I
used to
imagine myself somewhere
else:
A candy shop,
a swirling, sickly sweet
carousel,
a library with
ceilings that ceilings
that soared
like arias
or unscreamed screams.

No one told me
what to expect.
no one said
it felt stretchy, full,
and lumpy,
like giving birth
in reverse.
No one said.
No one told me.
So I told no one,
too.

And the carousels
kept spinning.

Once I grew silent
and still,
I imagined them,
the colors.
They sparkled, grew,
filled my body
like music,
like shooting stars,
like fairy tale narratives,
like letters that forgot
to form a sentence
with an end.

I don’t,
I mean didn’t,
and I wavered
and drifted far,
far away,
borne aloft by
balloons or grocery lists
or something anything.
I didn’t even need
my face,
my name.

Maybe you know them.

“Apophenia” means finding
patterns
in the chaos:
Cloud animals,
dead loved ones
in a crowd,
landscapes
in a
cobwebby ceiling.

Before the darkness,
I
danced and drifted,
a dandelion fluff
propelled by
sneers and
grunts.
I uncovered colors
in the dark
and
hoped,
hoped,
hoped
I would
remember
to forget.