Amber Alert – For the Headline

I have a word document saved on my laptop called ‘draft1’

And my laptop has not worked correctly in two years. And it has to stay plugged into a power source to work. And it’s so slow I could write faster by hand. And I’ve bought a new computer. And it has a functional version of Microsoft Word. And the delete key on the keyboard works. And I still haven’t transferred draft1 to my iMac. Or iPad. Or iPhone. And draft1 is still called draft1 because I am scared. And terrified. And petrified of my feelings being put into words. Or pixels on the screen. And draft1 has four blank pages at the beginning in case anyone accidentally opens it. And scrolls. And scrolls. And scrolls. And scrolls to page five. And finds a word dump from the last night I saw him. And how I cried in the weird hallway of the Detroit airport. And how the lights make me think of that scary boat scene in the old Willy Wonka movie. And a poem from the night after he dumped me. And a blackout poem of the breakup text. And how I always redact him calling me a distraction. And how I memorized the Merriam-Webster definition of distraction. And not the Collins. And how I’ve been called many things in my life, good and bad. And how distraction is the one that hurt the most. And another blackout poem of his unanswered apologies. And my unsent responses. And how I did send the one where I called him a coward. And how he agreed. And how I still mean it. And my laptop delete key still doesn’t work. And another where I define a family. And how growing up with two parents who argued more than loved changed me in ways I didn’t know. And how a college friend told me she chooses her friends to be her family. And how she felt like I wasn’t putting in enough effort. And how my last text to her went unanswered for months. And how I was once on my ex’s Spotify family plan. And how I still am. And so are his sister, mom, and dad. And the girl I distracted him from too. And how our overlap  was confirmed months later. And how that opened old wounds. And how he said not to worry about her. And how when I met her, she sprinted into the back room of their work laughing. And how he followed. And how all of their coworkers stared. And how I’m not dumb. And can catch a hint. And how draft1 can go unopened for months. And how sometimes I almost delete  it. And a list of times I knew it was over. And how I switch the order around a little more each time. And how I’m sorry I didn’t run the first time my gut told me to. And my laptop died because the MagSafe charger came loose. And a list of boys. And their icks. And another is an archived list from my notes app of all of his favorite things. And shoe size. And coffee order. And how I still don’t drink caffeine. And how I never got my Converse back. And how I did get one of her shirts though. And how she posted a photo wearing the sweatshirt I bought him the week before on VSCO before we were over. And how I’ll never date a man with the  same shoes size as me again. And how Nike bought Converse and uses cheaper materials. And how Converse  now suck. And how I still haven’t bought a new pair of white high tops. And how I never will. And I didn’t even put a space between draft and the number one. And a copy of my grandfather’s eulogy. And how I didn’t know where else to edit and save it. And how draft1 makes things inside it feel less real. And another word dump of how a Hinge prompt made me cry last summer. And he asked me what places I have saved in my weather app. And I told him my hometown. And the city I work in. And how I never check the weather there and always show up to work in the wrong jacket. And the town I spent the first 21 summers of my life in. And the town next to it I’ve spent my summers since. And how when I’m there I can still feel my grandfather’s presence. And how I’m terrified of my grandmother getting older.  And my college town. And the city my sister moved to last summer so I can always watch the weather while she’s 1700 miles away. And the Italian town I spent August 2017 in. And how it changed me. And how I would move there in a heartbeat. And the city he moved to. And how I’ve deleted all our photos. And texts. And I’ve removed him from my social media. And how I still know it is 76. And sunny. And a chance of showers in upstate NY. And it’s still called draft1. And a poem about the time I found out my mom had cancer. And how it’s the same kind her mother battled twice. And her mother battled too. And how my doctor said depending on her genetic testing, I could already be behind on my first mammogram at the age of 24. And how at 16. And 26. And everywhere in between guys have told me they love my boobs. And how they could kill me one day.  And calling it draft1 makes it seem like I planned on one day making a draft2. Or a final copy. And my brain moves too fast. And thinks too much to ever be more than draft1. And there is a one page short story about the alternate universe where I let her buy that fuzzy chicken our junior year of college. And how the PowerPoint is clucking while she’s  holding back tears explaining the financial gains of a fluffy chicken.  And how I go back to that video when I need a laugh. And I still haven’t named it because naming it anything other than draft1 makes it seem real. And maybe I should have titled this one ‘please let me join your Spotify Premium so I can get off my ex’s.’ And it’s alright, I use Apple Music.