Things That Weigh Less Than A Giraffe’s Heart

Kirsten Reneau

The thick left ventricular wall of the giraffe heart. source: Journal of Experimental Biology.

My dog; the weights that sit under my desk that I’m always saying I’ll start using soon, but never do; the postcards inside my desk that ask me how I’m doing in loopy black ink lettering; the letters I’ll never send back; everything currently in my fridge, combined; everything currently in my pantry, combined; the amount of alcohol I drank yesterday; the empty beer cans scattered around my house like tin sculptures; the rainclouds hovering over my house, whose downpour I imagine will break my ceiling in half, pouring enough water into my apartment for me to float; the amount of water it takes to float; the amount of water it takes to drown.

All the tears I cried this year, collected in a bucket.

The weight I lost when I was anorexic; the weight I lost when I was bulimic; the weight I lost when I did it the ‘right’ way; the ghostly imprints of my fingers pressed, hard, to my ribs; my ribs, but only if you were to pull them from my body one by one; my school backpack, just barely; my collection of chipped coffee mugs, brought home from Goodwill because I couldn’t stand the idea that no one would want them; all the money in my bank account if it was laid out in ones and stashed in a suitcase; my suitcase; all the records my dad gave me; all the make-up my mom gave me; that dress I never wear because I hate the way it looks on me, though I love the way the velvet feels when I run my open palm down the front—let the velvet slide beneath the lover’s line.

My tongue when I want to cry but don’t have a way to explain why.

Kirsten Renau is currently working on her MFA in creative nonfiction at the University of New Orleans. A Pushcart nominee, her work can be seen in Hippocampus Magazine, (Mac)ro(mic), Xtra Magazine, The Daily Drunk, Santa Fe Writers Project Quarterly and is forthcoming in Hobart Pulp and The Threepenny Review.