These are things that are in my body.
Cartoon containers of leftovers.
Sensations caused by summer grass on my skin.
Ghosts of flying, made up while unconscious.
Some sort of fluid mass, which travels.
There is a little bit of everything I have eaten.
And everything I have felt.
And everyone I have know.
My first boyfriend, it's the feel of his hand.
My second, his smell.
The third, the weight of him.
These are in the container of myself, my body.
I discovered, recently, what happens when someone goes away.
There is a small burst.
A spreading of debris.
A heaviness and the resulting black matter consolidates.
Ashley, I found, was held midway between my heart and my gut.