I’ll start with my Polly Pocket, my collection of rocks, matchboxes full of the smallest trinkets: acorns, rings, fluff, conkers, receipt notes, scrabble tiles, letters. And then I’ll move on to the unburnable stuff that exists in memory but is thick like a jelly ghost in front of me ready to slime me or stick.
And once you know them too, it’ll be a soulless sort of feeling for me. I’ll be an inch lighter. Like my debts you’ll have a responsibility, same as feeding me, making me sleep. And you won’t be ready, prepared, the way no one is for anything really. It’s only a bullshit blag.
You’ll wake next to mistakes of mine, luggage without shrinkage, stuff you’re sure we gave away. But nothing ever goes, and especially what you’re rid of first, you’ll want back. But eBay’s an unexpected soiled, an almost but sun altered or sat on. A hair in the spine of a book ready to slip out when you get to page 154.