I yank down the picture of us above my pillow. The forest of sunflowers. The Kahlil Gibran poem. Underneath it, there’s a picture of our family in Kusama’s At the End of the Universe exhibit. We’re standing with our arms wrapped around one another in a small dark room at the center of tiny yellow lights that seem to stretch out infinitely. But ain’t no more family! My walls are such a fucking lie!

I yank it down.

And the sketch of a silver flute I drew beside it.

And the handwritten Rihanna lyrics beside that.

I don’t know who you think I am

I don’t know who you think I am

I don’t know who you think I am

I don’t know who you think I am

And the trail of black stars drawn with various black marker tips underneath that.

And the picture of the Egyptian winged goddess, Isis.

All of the photos and quotes and ticket stubs and random written words and poems and facts and maps and magazine images and sketches and swatches of fabric and paper birds and birthday cards.

Every memory.

Oh, now the Mesopotamia fact wants to pop up. Written with purple crayon in perfect cursive. I hold it with two hands until sweat, pretending to be a tear, splashes on the curl of the capital M and reminds me of how all of this pain began. Fuck the first kisses fact! Off it goes to the floor with everything else.

Every love.

Every hope.

Every possible sign.

Until there’s nothing left but scraps still holding on to tacks.

“Why are you still holding on? There’s nothing left!” I scream, out of breath, and furiously start going after the last bits, ripping the tacks off the wall.

“Oh, Carli,” Mom says behind me.

I didn’t even realize she’d come in. She’s looking around in disbelief. I’ve been putting things up on my walls since I was four, since first watching her tack up things on her design boards. And I haven’t taken anything down since, just added layer over layer.

Until now.

And it’s like I’m seeing my walls blank for the first time. Like they’re closing in on me on all four sides, wanting answers about what I’ve just done. Whenever I used to look at my walls, it was like bits of my possible future staring back at me . . . but now there’s nothing. What am I supposed to do with nothing? What is nothing supposed to tell me about everything?

REX