Trash Intimacy

I just picked up a buttload of trash.

An angry man threw it all out yesterday morning.

Why was he angry? I assume he’s unhoused.

My anger turned empathetic, that “Why do I have to do this?”

So he can be angry.

Angry at the systems that keep him angry, hurt, mistreated.

I wonder if he found anything.

An ant is crawling on the other side of this page now.

Hello friend, I will take you out of my journal.

Only outside is allowed to be dirty, only inside is allowed to be precious.

I had a motley crew of tools.

When my trash bag ran out, a soy sauce packet took the role of broom, solid shampoo bar as my dust pan.

A big glass shard to collect little glass shards.

I felt intimate with this stranger, going through their trash.

They were on their period this week.

Empty takeout burger containers and full packets of Whole Foods sweet corn unfinished.

An onion, green onion, moldy herbs.

I flicked over a mango peel, and tried not to let the frenzy of ants get to me, not let them touch my anxiety.

There was function in this trash—my tools.

There was nutrients and desire in this trash—for the ants.

There was intimacy in this trash—hello neighbors.

Does anyone know me as deeply as my trash can?

The depths of what I try to hide away, not let anyone see, deodorize, sanitize, pretend it’s not here, and make all my icky problems-waste-impact I’m not proud of go away, out there, not mine anymore.

My trash knows me most honestly.

They are a paper, plastic, cardboard, and organic trail of my decisions.

Who am I if not the mess I make of all the shit I leave behind?