Making the Move
I move in on the weekends - our weekends, anyway. I move in on a Monday and on Wednesday morning I pack my things into my bags and you drive me away. I do not leave anything behind, I take all of my items: my stowaway toothbrush, my refillable deodorant, the strings I pull from your socks, all the candy words you give me on strings. On Wednesday morning, you drive me away and ask me to hop out while you test something. I wait there for my next ride.
Some weeks I come back early. I pack a duffel bag with well wishes that I sling over my shoulder. You meet me out back of my work and I stuff myself into an envelope you can slip into your pocket. You take me home and unfold me, you let me breathe out the wrinkles and fog. On these nights I lay next to you, rarely any time for anything else; on these nights I rest my head on your chest waiting to hear if your cyst will rupture; on these nights I feel so honored that you want to curl up next to me that I do not sleep, I just watch you rest; on these nights, I don’t even bother unpacking.
Some weeks I fade into the forest until you can stand to see more of me. I pretend to be a tree that you can chop down when you are ready (precut). I know your mind is too full of tools you never get to use: the axe, the paring knife, the spoon you grind when you’re anxious. You can cut me with anything you want, you can chew me until I fall over.
On the weekends I unpack my bag at your place: in the corner I leave my pile of clothes (never the right options), I stack my jewelry in a pile on your coffee table, the branches and twigs that are caked in my hair, the lingerie that hasn’t been bleached by my pussy, the cock ring we broke the first time we used it. On the weekends I unpack myself: I tell you how I really feel, how scared I am of the forest, the thoughts that creep in with the bugs at night, the sounds that scare me, the list of longings that I’ll never stop writing. On Wednesday I pack this all up: with your leaking brain, with your sharp fingernails, with the jokes you won’t stop telling. On Wednesday I pack you back into my heart like a folded envelope and I keep you close.
The only thing left: the lighter I leave so I’ll have something to smoke.
Victoria holds an MA in English from the University of Maine. Her work has been published in Interpret Magazine, pioneertown, Selcouth Station, JAKE, G*MOB Magazine, and Meow Meow Pow Pow Lit. She is also the winner of FC2’s 2021 Ronald Sukenick Innovative Fiction Prize, for her collection of short stories My Haunted Home released by FC2. Victoria’s poetry chapbook Death and Darlings was published in 2022 by Bottlecap Press. Victoria strives to create work that can meld together the punk roots her parents raised her in with the disillusionment of losing her mother at a young age. Overall, she hopes to discomfort, humor and charm.