While flecks of dust are dancing around in this cluttered room, I’m rushing to fill a bag too small for everything. Stuck between leaving this place and heading somewhere, don’t know where I am now nor where I am going. Foes wait at the door – their pressure weighs heavy on me I am Rodin’s Caryatid carrying all this weight, weary yet resilient. Or am I Newton’s cradle – moving but not going anywhere Determined to declutter – I can’t leave these souvenirs. My neck creaks towards the past while facing blindly to the future I’m stuck here carrying on ad infinitum I ask you to bring your shoes You tell me to leave them as you leave, leaving me perplexed as my knuckles turn white not leaving these things
I’d rather be a bag lady than a person without memories.
If I open my eyes I’ll disappear from this place. Find the perfect moment when the breeze melts under the sun, scatter me amongst the Tuscan sunflowers and I’ll be free
British-Filipino-American Thea Buen (she/her) is a California native living in London, UK. Her work primarily focuses on identity, immigration, nostalgia, and mental health. She's currently working on her first novel, Sleep the Clock Around. She's recently been published in Nymphs Publications and Untitled: Voices. Be her friend on Instagram @thea.buen or Twitter @theabuen.