A baby tooth, cracked in half.
Bits of tin foil. A pro-choice button.
The family forecast. Six bobby pins.

Your least favorite flavor of gum.
Pepper spray. Peppermints. Pepper
the Drug Dealer’s phone number.

A coupon for ninety-five percent off
your mother’s warnings at Victoria’s
Secret. A forgotten fifteenth birthday.

The wrapper of an almond granola bar
you pretended to eat. An expired bus
pass. Two empty packs of apologies.

One leaking pouch of I Desperately
Want You To Like Me. A milk carton
with me, the missing kid, on its back.

A coy tube of pin-up peach lipstick.
A gram or two of Things You Thought
I Should Try. An earring. This poem.

Crumbs of a sentence you wouldn’t
let me say, once. An expired drivers
permit. A leg of your parents approval.
A colorful leaf I thought was neat.
Three sets of flash cards of Things
I Have Learned About Your Life.

The last bite of advice I didn’t take.
A list of people who are proud of
me. One unique fact about myself.