Durell Carter

Do you remember the room with the aluminum foil walls? The barricade of unwound hangers and plastic forks that stood up from the ground with the help of duct tape you found from the man you refuse to acknowledge as your father. The unscrewed light bulbs you claimed to see steal the souls of the children you lose, lost, will lose again, the yellow highlighter you used to color the eyes of your mother, the woman you spit venom stained glass at every morning, and the golf club you used to swing at the demon who dared to knock on your door to tell you they are hungry, are all laying on your bed that’s covered with saran wrap so that you don’t get any of the world’s sickness embedded into your pure heart.

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Do you remember that room? Do you remember that house? Do you remember the world you helped create for the people who once prayed to you?