Do not let me borrow your headphones.
I shove them in my pocket. I discard them in piles of laundry. I fall asleep with them tucked in my ears, which tears them apart. I catch them on door handles, and I drop them in the rain. I tug on them harshly, and I rip at them when I dance. I pull on exposed wires until all I can hear are distant, waterlogged chords. I am more tempted than I should be to keep them in while showering.
And that’s only if I can remember where I left them. I will forget them on the T. I will run them through the wash, which will take me days. I will lose them beneath papers and blankets. They will fall between the sheets of my bed and the wall. If Pluto finds them before I do, he’ll scamper away with the chord crinkling in his mouth and the port clicking on the floor, and he’ll store them in a corner piling with missing socks.
I will find them months after compensation at the bottom of a backpack or somewhere between the pages of a book or deep in a coat pocket or a messy closet.
The guilt will melt me. I will start sending you music to listen to through a new pair. It will get in my head that I fractured our relationship, and I will worry until I really do.
Do not let me borrow your headphones unless you are ready to learn everything about me that you will ever have to.
PLUTO BLOOMING 