What you used to Know.

In front of the mirror, I make myself into perfection.

Layer upon layer, I create a persona, a creature I want to be, to be believed.

A bus I used to know, large bag of heavy memories and the regrets of someone some time ago who drove me to fear some fires.


A sea of faces I have grown to ignore, I walk alone into a space that was a second home.

The back of a gentleman I once spoke to, just a ways in front of me. I dart into the hallway I spent nights wandering, laughing, tricking doors into not locking me away.


The room of education, of art, of three years of my life.

To my left – room into room of familiar faces.


I am smoke, passing through without a breath nor a word nor a hair noticed.

I look through the hall door, a play on repetitive motion, I had it seen so many times.



What is air. What is tension.



This is no nostalgia.

These are what I used to know.

What I thought I knew.

What I wanted to believe I knew.



Breeze whisks me away.



I will not become a disaster.


I was never what you used to know.


Published by

Brenna Renée Prather

Costume Designer. Writer. Artist.

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