Nothing good

she said all those lives got heavy after a while, all those garbage bag suitcases. she was thinner now, her clothes hung off of her, billowing drapes heavier than her years, but she was still all jittery knees and restless hands. she kept small pieces of the place she left behind, strips of wallpaper, cubes of carpet. she wanted to remember, the same way she wanted to forget.
a few months was a night in her world. in the morning she scraped off her painted face and put on a new one. she only believed in the throwaway life--paper plates, styrofoam cups, 99c toothbrushes, drinks in cans, vending machine meals. it all piled up like a landfill. when she died she said she wanted to lay on top of it while they hauled in the gasoline, while they scratched off the matches. she said she wanted it all to burn; said she wanted her own funeral pyre, made of the things she threw away.