The doors to my mind are not open or closed. They are a soft, vanilla white.
Finished with brass handles and rubber edges.
That if they might close; no sound would escape.
Hollowly, wind flows through my eyes to flutter the pool of papers inside my mind’s brick walls.
Written on those free pages are headings of the dates; followed by black boxes of ink which run top to bottom.
Each day that I have been; my mind has scribbled in an incoherent language of pheromones to make sense of my association with all I was born into.