a poem a day for a year #104

by Amy Turn Sharp


Sometimes I write down all of my secrets and disturbing thoughts and desires on small slips of paper. In very small script. In pencil. I read them like fortune cookies while I sit in waiting rooms or with my back against the nursery door singing softly to my baby at nap time. I put them in my pocket for a few days. Always close to me. I finger them and crinkle them to small crumpled bits. I can never find a trash can big enough. I am never near a landfill. So I eat them. Like snacks. They are highly addictive. They are fuel for misfits.