Annar in the Inbetweens

I want to take everything down from my walls, off of the coat hangers and put them in a pile at the bottom of the stairs, take the pages out of every book and rid my bed— take out all of my pens and lay them out to look at. I want to paste whatever piece of literature I can gather on the walls and read each one by one. I want to connect each page with something— another piece, another image, another song or idea— a film, perhaps even. I want to strip everything down to bare motifs— everything, I mean, everything. Every album I am in love with, every story I have ever read and loved, everything I have ever written that is worth the time of day. It needs to make sense; it doesn’t make sense. I want to figure out what constellation the beauty marks on my face and back make— am I from the stars?

I want to stand here naked, nude knee against nude knee and bare feet carefully placed along, beside, on top of each other— goosebumps touching goosebumps— vulnerable to everything I have ever known.

Where is my art?
Where am I and how did I get here?