Things I Stole:

By Kayla Richardson-Piché


Kite string
          from Ms. Patterson’s class. That wasn’t her real name
          but it sounds right enough. She was so depressed
          and everyone knew. She wouldn’t let anyone
          use the darkroom. I think because of sex
          reasons. Art was supposed to be fun but in her class
          I just felt sad. Sad because she was sad and it smelled
          like chemicals and somebody stole my journal
          where I wrote it was my birthday and when I got it back
          they wrote nobody cares about your fucking birthday
          and also fuck you and also suck my dick and
          I just didn’t open that book again for a little while.
          The kite string was pearly and silky and wound
          around a cardboard cone. I liked how it slipped
          softly into knots. Ms. Patterson showed us a picture she took
          of herself from 20 years ago as a self-portrait example and she looked
          mysterious—maybe even a little sexy—and it made it harder
          to look at her real eyes after that. The kite string
          was on her desk in the corner. I told myself
          I was just going to borrow it. That it fell into my backpack
          by mistake. That it was for someone special—
          for someone else even. I needed it. Maybe. But the truth is
          I took it. And I never gave it back.


About the Author:

Kayla Richardson-Piché is a senior at the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill, majoring in Vocal Performance. She likes to fill her unscheduled time with poems, food, and sweet friends. 

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