i think orange is a perfect color for rebirth. when i was 6 years old, i was given an orange notebook to write down all the bad things i did in a day. i did many bad things but so did others. there were tiny purple flowers that grew inside the orange cardboard, they multiplied by a dozen in an hour of me having it and started a subway line that ran in thick, gold tracks. all of this happened in front of my eyes. the gold tracks would run all the way from the softest bud on the spine to the darkest corner of spit and chew, all the while remaining in the false shine of the cheap cardboard, orange with fallen teeth marks of a baby.

false memories are real memories to someone, that someone is likely a version of you in a parallel universe and probably has false memories about you that are real memories of you of yourself in this universe that you occupy.

sometimes i wonder if i feel the opposite feelings of the general majority. i love the smell of petrol, i get euphoric when i suffer from any deja vu, i hate cinnamon, i hate apple pie, french fries are tedious, i think kids are evil and killing the planet in vast numbers.

there’s a dream that i had when i was a kid, i have dreamed it so many times since that now i’m not entirely sure if it’s a dream or a memory. a man, big and smelling like styrofoam holds my hand. i look up at him and there are sand waves, convulsing, dropping dull ringlets of purple fire – a waltz of ceaseless dunes on his head. his smile is warm and i can make out half moons staring back at me, fluid and weak somehow. his grip on my hand is one of security and i taste ash on my tongue. as we cross the street, i feel cold but sweet. we get on a big red bus and climb the stairs till we reach a shiny mountain. the mountain speaks in a piled, old voice and i realize it’s a woman, short like my body, wearing yards of lemon peel, drinking acid and shouting insults in my face. i can’t hear what she’s saying but i know whatever it is, it’s true.

all hospital beds smell of a shaman that has bathed in 70% alcohol and mountain dew, that’s how you know you are safe. old fathers, young fathers, everyone gets sick. i never thought one of the deepest regrets of my life would be not being allowed to kiss a fading grain of saffron, ill and dehydrated, on whose body vessels spread rivers and strike currents that have lost their hue, turning a wasted orange.

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Nooks Krannie is a Palestinian/Persian female writer from Montreal, Canada. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, “I have hard feelings & I wish I could quit chocolate” (Moloko House Press, 2016) and “candied pussy” (Thistlemilk Press, 2017). nkrannie.com insta: @nookskrannie

Image Credit: Tu Cam