By Charles K. Carter
Content Warnings: Sexual content, heartbreak
After seventy-four days of tripping
over the box of shit he left at my place,
I decide it’s time to throw it out.
But first, I torment myself
by going through these leftover relics
one more time.
It’s for closure, I try to fool myself.
But I’m not buying it. I know myself too well.
I’m too fond of fingering a bloody wound.
I toss out his crappy pop CDs
but keep a few of the good ones.
I toss out his Clone-a-Willy silicone copy of my dick.
I throw out his sketchpad and junk mail.
I don’t throw out his tax folder.
(I’m not a monster.)
And then I come to a manilla folder
full of evidence and theories about the ghosts
he has encountered on his journeys.
I wonder if there’s a guiding spirit
who lives in this house,
a friendly ghost who gave him company.
A friend who helped him see
the courage he harbored inside to move on
from me and into his own happiness.
I wonder if it’s weird
if I want to become this ghost’s friend, too.
Is it weird to befriend your ex’s friends?
Let’s dig out the dusty spirit board and see.
Charles K. Carter (they/he) is a queer poet from Iowa who currently lives in Oregon. They are the author of If the World Were a Quilt (Kelsay Books) and Read My Lips (David Robert Books), as well as several chapbooks.
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