267/365: The Hungriest Girl

old potato

The hungriest girl I ever met
lived in my apartment.
She used all the shampoo
and ate all the noodles
and touched every thing in every room.
One afternoon,
she sat on the carpet by my bed
and lit match after match,
burning her leg hair
slowly, slowly,
because she was out of razors.
Each match head melted itself to the carpet,
and I trimmed the whole room with scissors
on my hands and knees
to save us from the ugly landlord.
When we moved,
we cleaned out the kitchen cupboards,
and I pulled out a sack of forgotten potatoes
she had stashed away to hide them from herself.
Blue, sour juice spilled out onto the floor,
a terrifying surprise of decay,
and she laughed.
The smell never left my shoes.
I discovered my journal later in a box,
the one for which I never found words,
scribbled over inside with her poetry.
The empty spaces, covered, gave themselves back,
and I took them,
quietly forgiving every reckless thing.

#365poems at Schmutzie.com

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