The Trash Compactor
By Leslie Cairns
It needs to be said that I almost had a tragic fall, Humpty Dumpty-ish, where people with jobs and houses and sparkly kids looked down and said , “wow, that was a trainwreck.” Jobs didn’t stop it, running on borrowed moss in houses I couldn’t linger at-it didn’t matter how long I tiptoed or how many times I swept or mopped, I was no Cinderella.
I tried all of that. That period is over, a finite combustion in time when I grovelled to be seen. Where I looked in mirrors and wondered where I’d be
The next day.
In fact, it’s been years since the day I left with suitcases. There were funny stories–I left a new keurig at the train station because I couldn’t carry it all alone. Stories that seemed glitzy and nomadic and quirky now just seem sad–
Mostly a young woman having to travel alone to survive.
But I’m still a trash compactor. On walks with my dog, she sniffs sunflowers lying towards the sky, begging for another summer to be alive–
I’m looking at hollows, wondering if that alcove is large enough for me to live in it. It doesn't matter that I’m a mother now, I still think of hiding, in case I ever have to–
I look for any debris, is it something I can keep? I’ve found a locket, chips (unused, that I left but barely) the hungry part of me scavenging–
& how can any part of this part of me find its way
Back toward the looping trail, towards home, towards safety. Those hungry years devoured me, belched out the bones, and now I have to pretend I’m succulent– long lasting– meant to be pretty.
I see a scarf, warm and forgotten. A Nalgene water bottle I would never splurge for. I’ve picked up a lawn chair for my porch once.
I let my secrets fall like pooh sticks into brooks. Please let me no longer collect
What isn’t mine.
& wait for someone to tell me
Where next to go.
Somewhere there’s an alcove where the fireflies and I are roommates. My Spotify playlist and watch batteries on a small lamp are affixed–
There is a blanket taken from a therapist who said she had extra. I have my great grandmother’s pin and my grandma’s stuffed Winnie the Pooh, and there are snacks from Dollar Tree, and I go get gas station coffee, and I work somewhere close by and I need nothing and I look for more on the way home, and I travel to beaches sometimes and get seashells–
And I am affixed here, because no one ever lingers.
I am trash turned healing. I am a half-bitten wolf that escaped–
If only just briefly.
Leslie Cairns is a writer who enjoys writing about mental health. Her favorite published pieces appear in Roi Fainéant Press, as well as Heroin Chic. Twitter: @starbucksgirly
