I picked up everything you ever gave me—those old books you bought from used book stores for not very much money, and the shells you found on the beach when you were visiting California. I picked up the doubt you made me feel every day every time you seemed so involved with those other women and I'd ask you about it and you'd talk me out of believing what I knew to be true. I picked up the love I felt. I picked up always wondering where you were and what that spot on your neck was, and I picked up how small you'd make me feel sometimes, and for no good reason, and usually when I was feeling good about something else. I picked up your face and your body and your lies and your promises and I squeezed them together into a ball and threw it up into the sky over to the moon. And the people applauded.


.