Pluto

It’s the second day of February and I have decided to begin taking down the Missing Person posters plastered inside my head.

One by one – torn paper, smudged ink, crusted glue under my fingernails.

For months, the yellowing and poorly photocopied sheets hung like Havisham’s dress. For months, black and white photos of me in San Francisco, coloured photos of me in New Zealand. For months, faded by the sun, caked in snow, fallen victim to graffiti and time and gossip.

“Oh god, that poor girl, I hope they find her.”

“She’s not missing, she ran away. Girls like her do that, she doesn’t want to be found.”

So now, one by one – wet paper like icing in my hands.

And now I’m thinking thinking thinking: A search party resigns only when they find or give up on the individual. But I don’t know, I’m yet to hear. I’m just taking them down to make room for art.

I’ll stuff one or two of them into the pocket of my winter coat.

A keepsake. Call it narcissism, I don’t care, I don’t know you. I don’t know you on purpose.  

I am Pluto today, tomorrow.

A planet, discussed, dissected, demoted, enduring. I don’t stop being what I am because you decided I’m not. I have five moons and they don’t need to be illumed to exist.

I can’t even see you from up here.

I am Pluto today, tomorrow.