Yellow Paper
- S.R. Laing
- Apr 23
- 1 min read
Do you see her?
No.
You do not look deep enough.
She moves
when you look away.
She presses forward
when you think
there is nothing.
In the little room
under the loving eye
of the one who called for rest
the bed is fixed to the floor with an iron,
ball & chain
A theatre of shadows
marks the hours
as yellows
drain to grey.
Begin at the edges
where the paper lifts,
and pull.
The pattern comes away
like skin
that forgot it ever had
a pulse.
Look closely.
I am here
among the decoration.
I learned
how to exist
inside the pattern:
behind it,
along its edges,
through it.
I’ve pulled off most of the paper
so you can’t
put me
back.
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