Like Nothing She Wanted

A woman in a hotel room in Prescott puts a

paper sack full of nickels on the nightstand,

pulls open the drawer and slides out the

Bible and some free note paper.  “Some day

I’m going to forget all of this,” she writes, folds

the paper in half, and sticks it in Proverbs.  She

remembers blowing out shots of Everclear

once instead of candles. The bottle in her hand

now feels like she felt last July.  After a few

somethings, she notices that someone has carved

notches into—tried to turn into—.   The edge of the

bed is like teeth.  There’s something hovering

above the door.  The shape is like nothing she

wanted.  When she leaves the hotel, it is dawn,

and her shoes leave tracks like hot ash in the snow.