Backspace
I thought I typed on keys that clacked and rang,
But truth was tucked beneath my faulty thread—
It wasn’t typing first, it was meringue.
In primary school, the pots and whisks still sang.
I hated it. My soul half-baked, half-fed.
I thought I typed on keys that clacked and rang.
By ninth, I dropped the knives with quiet bang,
Chose typing—on computers now instead.
It wasn’t typing first, it was meringue.
Some classmates still used tools from Twain or Lang,
Their typewriters already half-way dead.
I thought I typed on keys that clacked and rang.
Yet years went by, and back to pans I sprang,
Mistook the past, reheated what I’d shed.
It wasn’t typing first, it was meringue.
A loop I walk, the pattern tightly strung,
Where thoughts mislead and ghosts of habits tread.
I thought I typed on keys that clacked and rang—
It wasn’t typing first, it was meringue.
Image Generated by ChatGPT - Backspace
About this Poem
Backspace traces the quiet confusion of remembering your own story wrong. It's a poem about missteps disguised as choices, and the subtle ways we rewrite our pasts to make sense of where we’ve ended up. Shifting between kitchens and keyboards, it explores how early paths linger; sweet, unresolved, and not quite forgotten. What we choose, what we return to, and what we mistake for memory or growth are rarely as separate as we think.
