Vicarious

Tell me, where was I? I was swallowing milky spiderwebs and yelling in the street. Where was I? I was a teenager. Where was I? I was reading E.E. Cummings, trying to learn how to love without destruction, I knew nothing, so I had to teach myself something.


Where was I? I was auto-asphyxiating and choosing whether or not to tighten the noose. Where were you? You were in the other room, with the tv on high, pretending you couldn't hear my cries. You secretly hope you can choke me too.


Damn, I could really use a drink, I could use an apostrophe, or an apotropaic mixed with some false sense of plausible deniability. There should be a couple of things they sell at the corner store to help with the memories. Maybe one day all the ales in the world will go away from the things that've ailed me all today. Maybe the rain will stop coming, and they will stop judging, how I didn't choose to run away from everything that could have sent me to an early grave. I'm not going to write, I'm not going to bed, I want to finish this thought and light a fire between my legs. I'll hear the stories later. About my mother, your father, and the apostles I disobeyed when I started giving blowjobs in the 7th grade.


I want to make room inside me for you, but all of my organs are still on the shelf collecting dust. What's the difference between a nightmare and false memories? What if the sky was green and the grass was blue? Maybe if the world was backwards, you could love me like I love you.






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