A piece of my mind is out there somewhere. Is it paper confetti waiting to be repulped, screened and bleached in a local recycling center? Or is rotting in a landfill in Newton? I'd dig it up if I could, just to read it one more time.
Maybe I just put it in another hiding place, because I knew what could happen if she found it.
Maybe I just put it in another hiding place, because I knew what could happen if she found it.
But no. She read it, and she destroyed it. My best work yet, gone, gone like christmas gone thanksgiving gone like my hard drive. Like anything that ever made sense.
How tragic it feels, to lose the exactitude of those memories... The tragedy of losing tragedy. Forgetting has never meant freedom for me.
beautiful.
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