Sean began picking up my rumpled blue poems.
“this doesnt look like a paper,” he remarked.
“Bree, what did you do?”
“oh, those?” i said. “thosre my so-called poems, garbage, really.”
“oh my god,” Sean said, and took the crumpled papers gingerly in his arms. he carried them into his room.
he came back over to the bookcase.
all serious in the eyes now, “im keeping those until you want them back.”
“keep them forever,” i said, not feeling what i said.
i climbed down from my perch. i went to get a smoke but Sean grabbed my arm.
“Breanna, where the hell is your paper?”
Bree is not short for anything. Sean always called me Breanna when he was serious or excited, or mad at me. i liked it.
“its right here,” i said, “relaxxx. its just words typed out. they dont deem being turned over to the authorities.”
in my head i mused on the word ‘author’ being in the word ‘authorities’.
“none of us are so authorized.”
and with that i tore my paper into strips.