I come from a snoring bedroom,

Chocked by the odor of the half-dead bodies.

I come from the silhouette-like holes of the wall.

From a blue on my forehead,

And from the red of the number four.

I come from “he has gone,” and “come out from under the bed.”

I come from black and white details,

From films not shot,

And lines not read.

I come from light pink of a peacock’s tail,

It covers the pointlessness of my family’s day.

I come from heavy smoke, from blooded coughs and “I don’t care.”

I come from nowhere that everyone is from.

I come from an uncertain present, not seen, untouched, without a form.