Carry

Published on Fauxhouse by Ti 12/1/2023

I wore you like a backpack.

The black plastic covering your stiff body felt smooth on the back of my neck.

(They claimed I carried around your corpse for miles, but I know that’s a lie because I see you still post on twitter and if I close my eyes I can hear your laugh.)

The makeshift twine and ducktape straps dig into my shoulders, a reassuring squeeze. You’ve been heavy for so long that the weight is no different than my body.

(Here’s the scene of the fall evening, scarves being exchanged. Us noticing how a part of the other could still be felt. “It smells like you,” we say in unison with the trees swaying.)

I have to take you off my back to sit in chairs, I always pull off the left strap first, the shift aching in my chest. I lean you next to me on the wall, the desk, the undusted bookshelves. I offer any food I’m eating to you, sometimes smudging it up against where I remember your mouth being.

(Consider the cost of all these late night Domino’s orders. The greasy pizzas mixing with all the alcoholic drinks we never got to share with one another. Where does the debt sit now? What left is there to pay?)

In my dreams, I tear open the bag that holds you and the only thing that spills out are red poppies. Hundreds and hundreds of them I swim through but I can never get to the bottom.

When I wake up for the fourth time during my sleepless night, I hold you tighter until I hear the stems inside snap.