Savannah Abrishamchian //

I knew we’d break up during that one weekend in San Diego when I sat outside texting over the phone angry and sad and saw a butterfly floating around me. I knew we’d break up after I cried in my brother’s Tesla. When I was quiet most of dinner, even though I love prosciutto. I knew we’d break up when you told me to stop this right now. But I never stopped, so.

I thought I was good. I was fun. I was soft. I was hard when I needed to be. I laughed a lot. I smiled a lot. I smelled good and made sure of it. I kissed you before bed just in case you died in your sleep. I always hoped you had a good day, even though you never saw days as good or bad.

I thought I was good. I was pretty. I was smart. I looked good in red. I wanted to be wonderful.

I think about it sometimes while driving. The end. Like tonight when I saw two girls running on the street. The kind of running you run when you are free from pain. From breakage. On the other side of the street was a man, holding up his sign that read homeless. Both parties made me sad. They made me think.

About your floor and your sink and pillows and your sheets and your trash that needs to be taken out and the bugs on your floor that still rest there, dead in the corner, but stuck as if they are still dying.

I thought about how good I was after I parked my car close enough to my apartment to walk and think, but not walk and cry. I thought about what would happen if this car at the stop sign ran over me and if I could handle it. I thought about all the things I carried for you and me, as I crossed the street with my groceries. My Tylenol, soup, and pudding. And I thought about how strong I was and how easy it was for you to miscarry. And I decided that I wasn’t good at all. And the only kind of wonderful I knew was somewhere between homeless and running free.