but somewhere she is stuck.

One life gone,

And sixteen other lives won’t go away,

and she isn’t going to stay

so she strips her possessions like she gave his away.

 

Is it betraying him to leave?

Did she betray him when she stayed?

Will she betray him now?

 

“It’s all for sale, yes everything.”

“What would I stay for, here?”

“Take it. I bought the bowl not dog.”

“Where to? I’ll let you know.”

 

she won’t

 

Somehow it’s right that all she has fits in one bag and somehow it’s too much. She climbs on the bus leaving her coat at the stop, her book on a seat, a drink on the bench. She’s shedding. Her snakeskin’s coming loose, and maybe once it’s gone she’ll be shiny again.

This isn’t something that she can shed like a skin. Maybe she needs to be arachnoid and emerge from a body somehow larger, but right now she’s not larger, she’s smaller and she shrinks inside it.

Have I done the right thing?

Have I done the right thing?

Have I done the right thing?

There isn’t an answer, and the snow’s still melting, and of course she’s going south but just because spring is turning into summer it doesn’t mean things are getting better.

Fuck metafor.

She likes it better when she can turn her microscope on cells, not words.

She sees that fragile new lime green leaf, effortlessly shred, is formed of cellulose, given rigidity by something as fluid as water, and she looks and she looks until everything that she can see is broken down into its component cells.

 

Smaller and smaller …

smaller and smaller …

… smaller and smaller

“This stop for the airport.”

 

So she goes.