Trophies.

Plaid shirt, a leather jacket, a locket that doesn’t open, a tiny wooden heart. My trophies are shoved in a box under my bed that I see only when I’m forced to vacuum.

The plaid shirt? Stripped it off you in the parking lot of that artsy theatre (we were classy like that). Feverish and sweaty and young and unburdened. Steamed up the windows that the cop knocked on. You asked for it back, you should have known better.

Your leather was soft and cold and gamey. You dark and twisty thing us good girls were taught to avoid, just my type. We read like an acidic Nicholas Sparks novel. And god, that motorcycle. I put my head on your shoulder and we went hard and fast on a road to no where in particular. Just drove me, into the wild of the Carolina forest where we got lost and then got lost. That summer smelled like leather and gasoline and the back of your neck. I left for college, your jacket went with me. Not to keep, just to hold, so I’d have to give it back.

I got rid of everything of yours except the locket. It never opened, but it was pretty and useless. Shined on my neck and the girls cooed over the the heart I wore with your letters. Ornamental, cold, and sharp edges that bit my skin. Every picture and letter about you edited from the memory of the internet. Years of perfect poses hidden from my timeline. Don’t know why I keep the locket.

The heart was the center of the puzzle you gave me. Remember the puzzle? I love puzzles, giving in to chaos, creating order. You scrawled on the back of that heart shaped puzzle how much my love meant. The spacing of your scrawl left the center bare. I burned that puzzle. Kept the wooden heart.