Sometimes I wish certain memories

could be transferred from my mind

to my laptop. I’d label the folders

with names, dates and smells:

Jackie, Starbucks, cigarettes.

The trash application burrows

the bottom of my screen, lid

unhinged. I’ll click, drag and drop.


I’ve trashed completed essays

and assignments; they never cross my mind.

I’ve moved on from you, but I still find you

lapping, laying back, sunbathing in his iris.

Anytime he says “I love you,” there’s a glow in his eye;

I wonder if it’s you.

Too bad friendships can’t be kept on memory sticks.

I’ll toss you in a drawer atop a mattress of pencils and pens.


I can’t wait for my memory to fill to the brim.

I’d love to watch you pour out of me.

I’d crack, carve my cranium like a pumpkin,

remove you like the candle, just to feel you burn in my hands.

I wish you taught me how to forget; how to:

let the phone ring,

delete messages,

ignore plans.

I was always waist-high in your trash bin.

How awful for you to have trash that never left the curb,

that broke off the lid and teetered the can until –



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