In a poem, “Moon Halo,”
I said I deleted the photos of us.
The messages too—
the ones I kept like insurance
where he spoke poorly of his friends.
I bagged up his clothes,
dropped them at Goodwill.
Threw out the small reminders of our story—
a plastic shark from a bar crawl,
a heart-shaped rock from Avila.
I ripped up the last birthday card,
the one where he finally called me beautiful.
I posted the poem—
Vocal. Facebook.
Places he doesn’t follow me,
everywhere,
since he blocked me, deleted me.
The next day—
a white envelope in my mailbox.
Inside:
my cheetah print panties.
The only proof he still had that I existed.
He drove 21.4 miles one way
to return them.
Deliberate.
Like he returned the favor.
About the Creator
Tina D. Lopez
I’m just a human trying to make it in this world. I write about heartbreak, loneliness, longing, anger, family—all the things I can’t seem to leave alone. Everything I write is about me, even when it’s about someone else.
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