Scroll through the majority. Grocery list. Milk, frozen food,
bathroom soap refill, chicken. Dead link to a writing contest
I didn’t win. Drunk poetry drafts. Lines I still haven’t used.
You hold so much of me, caretaker of unassembled lives.
Here is a list of one-day names for one-day babies I have
not yet held and may never hold. Ava, Carter, Willow,
Violet, it goes on but I always stop reading there. I just
don’t like to worry about the lives I could possibly ruin.
Diary entries typed through wet eyes at the witching hour.
Textbook chapters I never read. Movies still unwatched.
My ex’s Twitter password. I’d leak it here if I were feeling
particularly evil. An old friend’s Starbucks order. Venti.
Credit card number disguised in code. Same with Social
Security. License plate. Excerpts from a dream journal.
I dreamt once that you had bone cancer. I wrote it down
and that was the end of it. Useless information, alphabet
soup, loose bits of the jigsaw puzzle I’m putting together.
I mean, at least I have the pieces.