Scab

The anthems of my quiet hours are changing. I can post a glossy smirking Jake on every wall, but Summer of 69 and Sundown still seem anachronistic. Those songs belong with beige carpet, citrus and sage, oddly placed doors and space shuttered in by the crackling of a Michigan winter. This apartment echoes and smells apple, like the candles that were on sale at the Fenway mall. We are reshaping ourselves to fit these corners, the thin notes and I.
Once, my grandmother's eyelids began to heal together at the corner, top to bottom. Some tiny cellular decision was made; she would be flesh of her own flesh, all of a piece, sightless and smooth. I scratch at my wound.
Wave on Wave, I scratch at the corners. I pick the scab of myself.