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.
