Looking at the book-map tucked away in a plastic bag.
Looking away but still having it in my peripheral vision.
I wonder how it feels, discarded in that nonchalant way.
(I fooled it into thinking I was nonchalant when I tucked it away.)
The book-map’s sticky notes glare at me when I smoke,
and I try to demean their meaning by catering to other distracting rituals.
I tell the book-map: “Don’t get me wrong,
but tidiness isn’t my ‘go to’ way;
you’re gonna have to suffer with me.”
The book-map cringes,
and crumples itself,
then attempts to jump into my tiny wooden bin.
“My love, if you want to keep your death a secret,
do it in secret.
I can see you trying to light yourself up
using my lighter.
You are my baby,
even if I, your mother, don’t give you a second glance.”
“Listen to me.
In this world, there are two types of people:
The ones who die silently with every forgotten promise,
and those who put up a fight and commence by dying silently afterwards.
So settle down,
your mother is bound to remember you one day.”