#10

what’s in my bag / what’s in my body

1. a blush compact

the one with the shattered lid‚ cracked like my mother’s voice when she said‚ you’re not a child anymore. the pink inside is almost gone‚ rubbed to the silver pan‚ but i keep it. like keeping a photo you can’t look at but also can’t throw away. i like the way it stains the apples of my cheeks‚ like i’ve been kissed by embarrassment. or by the ghost of a feeling i used to trust.

2. a wooden hairbrush

it has strands of my hair tangled in the bristles‚ the ones i tugged out during my bathroom floor epiphanies. i pretend it’s a relic. maybe archaeologists will find it and think : this belonged to a soft creature‚ she must’ve been trying to stay beautiful even while breaking. the wood smells faintly of the summer house by the sea‚ where i first learned what silence felt like against someone else’s back.

3. a cherry lip balm

melted‚ reformed‚ melted again. i’ve applied it in a thousand rearview mirrors. each time hoping it would make my mouth look more like something that deserves to be listened to. cherry-flavored things always taste like trying too hard. i keep putting it on. i keep trying too hard.

4. a journal

with a broken elastic band, lined pages inked with the names of people who never wrote back. i’ve drawn stars next to the dates that mattered : the wednesday i didn’t cry‚ the thursday i dyed my hair and tried to become a new species of girl. i write in it sideways sometimes‚ diagonally‚ like i’m trying to escape grammar the way i tried to escape my old bedroom.

5. a pouch of bobby pins

loose metal teeth. some still twisted with strands of old nights out‚ still sticky with hairspray and glitter. each pin is a small anchor. each pin reminds me of the weight i’ve learned to carry in such quiet ways.

6. a bottle of concealer

shade : ivory wound. it does a bad job of hiding anything real‚ but it’s something to press into skin‚ something to believe in‚ like a small ritual. i wear it under my eyes like i’m patching leaks in a sinking boat.

7. a lighter

even though i don’t smoke. it’s yellow‚ like a coward’s confession. i carry it for the girls who need fire. for the versions of me that wanted to burn letters‚ or bridges‚ or just time itself. it makes me feel dangerous‚ the way carrying a secret does.

8. a pair of gold hoop earrings

they jingle like the sound of saying yes when you mean maybe. they were my sister’s once. i stole them the year we stopped talking. they make me feel like i’m orbiting something – a planet‚ a memory‚ a version of myself who knew how to dance without counting the steps.

9. a perfume roller

smells like bergamot and first dates. i roll it on my wrists before going nowhere. the scent reminds me of trying to be seen – like the way flowers open even when no one is looking.

10. a single crumpled receipt

from a diner with sticky tables and waitresses who call you “honey.” i keep it like a pressed flower. that morning we split pancakes and didn’t say much‚ just let the syrup do the talking. i wanted to remember that – the simplicity of being fed‚ of being next to someone who wasn’t in a hurry to leave.