Naisha Roy, Copy Editor


Papercuts and cardboard boxes
The musk of a foreign home
I remember
reminscing and regretting,
Losing friends I never had.

Like every grain of a blank canvas
I painstakingly colored, forming identity.
But even it tore at the seams,
For who was I except a human reference?

(Starting over, they said, was always an option.)

The comfort of forever pillows
was a privilege I could only now afford,
Empty suitcases and empty shelves
made room for the identity
the papercuts had eaten away.

Nails in drywall and fresh coats of sea breeze,
served as reminders of my newfound permanence.
I remember
laughing and connecting,
Making friends I would never lose.

Like fireworks for my eyes
I airily painted, crafting identity.
Bursting at the seams, it never tore
I was a chef, an artist, a writer, a collector

(Don’t wait too long, they said, it would slip away.)

As I lay on my forever pillows
I think about the papercuts soon to come
Why can I already feel their stings?
I think about the dry cardboard boxes
Would they ever be marble?
I think about the musk of foreign homes.
When did permanence
become so temporary?