All
of my belongings should belong to someone else
to
the ones that live inside the wires and plastic and paint
of
every memory I can't quite stop reliving in my head,
to
the ones that remind me how much creation I have in this
set
of hands and how much I can destroy
of
myself, of my enemies, of the one I love
if
I let the walls slip in again.
My
Dutchmaster roaches should be in the ash tray
of
a girl who used me to
use
herself waste herself use herself up.
My
collection of owls should sit on the mantle
of
a man who let me believe in many
lies
half lies partial lies always lies.
My
typewriter should sit on the desk
of
a girl who beat me blue with her
art
its art its someone else’s art.
My
whiskey sour made with cheap lemonade,
sloshes
in her cup in a different county.
My
list of books to finish
are
the ones she'll read next month
over
the same dirty-chai in the corner of some
seedy
cafe on the edge of the wrong side of town where
the
rent is cheaper and people wave when she rides by
on
her bicycle on the way to the corner store,
on
her way to the bar, on her way to my house.
The
evidence is everywhere.
...
-->
Arielle Hebert is a
writer. She is also a reader, an
adventurer, an editor, and a teacher. She is currently doing these things and more
near Raleigh, North Carolina.
