interiors raze you collect your belongings after stealing a sip from another student's glass of milk and getting kicked out of class for some other unexplained transgression. two red binders with nothing inside. a shoebox tape recorder. a small ceramic pot overflowing with flowers. you whisper in the ear of your only friend and double back to leave the modular garden under her desk. in bisecting her unread poem with your leaving you've carved it into the ballad she wasn't brave enough to write. she touches on this in an interior monologue before turning her thoughts to an actor who died the day he stopped photographing himself standing on the stone steps of uninhabited buildings. if you're a hovel, she's a hotel, but what good is all that space if none of the rooms are furnished or occupied? 240902 what's it to you? who go blather from