I push a pushpin and the drywall collapses into a perfect tunnel. I unroll a blank canvas and ink myself onto space.


The shelving unit bends to just before snapping point.


Cup abandoned, tissue box empty, laundry crumpled.


Stacks on stacks on stacks; bodies on bodies.


I roll a blanket to tuck into the cold gap between our mattresses.


The window leans forward to watch the midnight streetcar short turn onto Bay.
I lean into the wall of perfectly frayed tunnels. Life collecting in all the corners I can’t bring myself to clean out.


As much as I love the aesthetic of a well-balanced living room with everything in it’s place, none of that reflects what it might look like for me to really feel at home. Even as a kid, when my mother asked me to clean up, I’d always reason that a house with some things out of place looked more like a house we actually use. A house with things crooked and piled, still clean but with a lazy hand.


Oh how I love these wall marks and wrinkly sheets; these aging months rattling in closets like loose doorknobs.



Posted by:jasmine

Jasmine is an editor, poet, and community arts organizer. She comes to poetry by way of Chinese music. This blog is a mapping of ways.

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