I’m 20 and a half, and sometimes I steal from Star Market. Sometimes I steal from Savers, and one time I stole from Anthropology. Tati and I were shopping around in the too expensive stores of Georgetown for the express purpose of having somewhere to be. Our stop in Anthropology was particularly aimless; before even walking in, we agreed that neither of us particularly liked the store. But nevertheless, we scaled each section. The bag was perched on top of a display, shining high above gaudy dresses and flowy pants. It glowed green for us. It glowed as if it had been waiting. Tati spotted it first. It was hers as soon as she saw it. It matched her eyes and made sense in her hands. It was buttery soft, the perfect size for chapstick and a book, the only things you really need in your bag. It was also $65. Not obscene but not cheap either. I told Tati I was buying it for her. She said no way. I told her she had to have it. Even this description is subliminally justifying the theft- the store name and all it’s connotations, the price, the way she wouldn’t let me buy it, the way I felt it had to be hers. Key words being I felt. I stole it alone. It was for Tati, but she didn’t ask me to take it. It wasn’t pure or altruistic or selfless or any thing like that. I had this deep need for her to have it because I love her, and she loved the bag, and she needs all the good things in the world right now and forever, and I know I can’t do much. I wanted to feel like a good friend– to be reminded of that love every time I saw the bag. I understood that she would’ve felt guilty had I bought it for her and so that wasn’t an option. The next thing I knew I was walking out the door holding the bag in my hands. No one was stopping me, and I hadn’t even tried to hide it. We were a block past Anthropology, and there weren’t any sirens. No one was coming to tell me no, tell me I would regret it. But then we were home, and Tati said to her mom, “look what Anna got me! Isn’t that so thoughtful,” and I wished I hadn’t taken it. I wished I could do something real for her. I joked about being like a mobster who stole his girlfriend a diamond, still elevating my situation, making it sexier that it was, but it wasn’t like that at all. I’m not a mobster; I’m not as cool or as bad. I’m just 20 and a half and trying my best, and I stole my first bag. I stole my last bag.
Here are some poems I wrote last month…
high winter:
it’s high winter and
i feel drunk with power
in my ugly clogs
my stolen socks
i’m sorry
i had a walking race
with a guy who
looked like a republican
i won but barely
on my way home
i peed in cafe nero
with all the lights off
the jazz that played
mixed with my music
the sound made
my eyes sting and
i wished i would disappear
kitchen sinks:
from our kitchen
we can see
another kitchen
with a ceramic swan
sat in front of the sink
it’s outline is stark
and white and
sometimes i look up and
watch the people
taking turns
washing and drying
passing back bowls
that are ready to be put away
wringing out the sponge
laughing hard with their
mouths wide open
songs of the week:
(i’m gonna figure out how to link spotify)
for your precious love by otis redding
call it fate, call it karma by moon panda
love you all! have an amazing week <3
newsletter no. 1
amazing amazing amazing <3