I've Thrown You Away

Eventually you keep too many things to keep. Papers and trinkets and photos and scraps get put into boxes, and the boxes, they have to go somewhere. Letting go is difficult until your shelves start collapsing. I woke in the middle of the night to a crashing down of memories. I spent until sunup throwing you away.

Cuticle

I'm reminded of how I used to bite my nails. Mother put a stop to that. Put some sort of solution on them so when they went in my mouth it was sour, like turpentine, maybe that's what it was.

She would push the cuticles back. I would see my nails as little slivers, equal parts pink and white. Then with the pushing back of that skin suddenly the pink would grow. Like the scrunching down of a turtleneck, revealing what was underneath all along. And it hurt.

But it isn't skin. It's wax. It grows to protect and then we push it back. And it hurts when we push it back, it hurts. As if to say stop, stop what it is that you're doing. I have to protect these nails. Let me protect them. Let me do my job.

I noted my father's nails. Cracked, yes, but large. And that was the difference between boys and men. Large hands, large nails, somehow it all made sense. I can deal fine with the pain now, I wouldn't even call it that. So here I sit, the grime of this carpet floor undoing what my shower's done. The turpentine is gone, the clips miss the bin, the wax is pushed and trimmed. Revealing these things, these things made for digging into oranges, scratching my scalp, running along the inseam of your palm.

Bless Me

I take myself out to dinner and pretend I'm visiting from another city.

I kicked a bird on purpose once and it kicked me back.

I make up stories for people on the subway. Out loud.

I always have money in my wallet to give them.

I sneeze on strangers in the elevator.

I never got those tests.

I rarely use my name in public. I often use an accent.

I do like your sister.

I cannot stand your breath and I've tried to tell you about it and I'm all out of ideas.

I am out of ideas regarding most things.

I blamed the smells on the dog. Even when we didn't have one.

I fantasize about fighting you.

I want to hurt people for no reason.

I would completely abuse the ability to stop time. I would abuse most abilities.

I am afraid of what I'm capable of.

I stole that thing in my closet.

I broke into your house. I sat there for hours.

I keep mementos.

I will find you but I might never find myself.

The Light

I don't sleep much, not since the clouds went away. Soon as the sun starts turning up again I'm all awake. The man who made this house, he must've known exactly what he was doing. Putting this window right where he put it. It's by design, I can tell. Nothing this perfect happens accidental. Sun comes up and strikes me in my face, I don't use an alarm. And it's there, and I'm there, and we sit there together for hours. Sun getting higher and higher in the sky as if to say, Get up, get up, I'm here and so are you. I try to glare at it as hard as it glares at me, but no luck. Every morning no luck. And before you bring it up, yes, I've thought about curtains. Thought about putting them up. But even though I hate it so, it seems wrong. Blocking out the light like that.

Hubcap

Right as I was about to cross the street the ambulance came racing by. Turned the corner, hit the curb, and the hubcap came flying off. Rolled right up to my feet, rolled tidily like a boy pushing a wheel with a stick in some olden time movie. I picked it up, saw it as an omen. It was my move-in day.

I walked into my new apartment. Studio. Room. The kitchen was designated with terrible linoleum, a fraction of a half a centimeter higher than my terrible wood floor. There was an oven, four small burners, one small door. Above it was nothing. No light, no microwave, no vent. Dust bits clung to the streaks of oil spattered up on the wall. I hung it there. Put a few holes in the drywall before I found one to my liking.

People ask me what it's doing there. I never know quite what to tell them. Something needed to go there. Something to catch the oil. But really, it came to me. I want to say it came to me, it needed to be with me, needed to be in my home. One person's trash... But that seems so silly.

Love Like an Eagle

You and me, girl, our love is like an eagle. Beautiful, majestic, profound. Until you look at it straight on, and you see its beady little eyes and its terrible little beak and its feathers are going every which way.

Weening

I remember the click my cell phone used to make. A little silver-grey box, pull-out antenna, screen half the size of a matchbox. There were two clicks actually. One when it opened, one when it closed. My thumb always punctuated it, a little flick of my hand, click, a little pause, ready for business. Closing it with my middle and ring fingers, one half hitting itself. I would sit there opening and closing my phone, opening and closing, opening and closing, opening and closing, click after click after click never getting old. Until it stopped working. Stopped opening the way it was supposed to. It was too much of a good thing. And of course my next phone, the click was hardly there at all, not very satisfying. And then this computer slab in my back pocket. I imagined the engineers knew what they were doing. Weening us. Now I take my phone out and there is no click, it doesn't make a noise, it doesn't do much of anything at all.