what do you do when you never knew life without it? when i am not what happened, but who would i be without it? when theres a certain pleasure to every drop of pain? i will always be rolling under waves of whiskey and wondering what the world looked like through these same eyes before. i tell my psychiatrist “when i spill red wine, i always see what could have been, what’s that mean doc?” but he only ever nods and scribbles a new prescription for another bottle of the same merlot no matter how many times i tell him that it tastes just like when i was seven and my mother tucked me in. i drink it anyways, of course, because i want to feel seven again until i’m back under the quilt my grandma made me with a hand over my mouth. i live here now, in this space between me and everything i've ever known. its not here that it happened, but its here that i remain.

we speak through lyrics of songs not written yet and fight in poems that have never been spoken. you’ll sit in the corner of the dark vacancies of my memory and i’ll ask you to watch a home film of the hands, the bruises and the beginnings. there’s a smack and a thud and you will almost be able to smell the whiskey. i’ll shiver and offer you a smoke. theres a soundtrack of silent bids for the finale. at the end i’ll tell you the story of something good, something to distract you from the catharsis i’ll feel. i’ll explain how “i don’t know what i am and i think theres something inside of me that will never leave ill explain it all i promise i will but now i need to sleep for a while” but i don’t think we’ll see each other after that. i like to play this game of cat and mouse where i pour my soul into something innocent and stand by to watch it evaporate; i like to know that nothing ever wins the game and i am not the only one who slips into the fallacy of memory.

there’s a place i want to take you, a few years back. we could watch from the start. it goes a lot like this: we spread a blanket and lay down to look through each other. a train drives through and we’re stuck on opposite sides of the rails, screaming and fighting and crying until the train stops and we stare some more, realizing there was never really anything there. we laugh. “i started running a few years after that and somehow i arrived at the intersection between his hands and the other side of the bed. i dreamt of this one night, truly, i rolled over and woke up under the stars, in all their glory, but they shone a little to bright and i saw it again. the shoulders and the bruises, oh the bruises. they always burned a beautiful color of plums and that red wine he claimed to love so much. i always knew he was lying about that. the way the corner of his lips crawled up his cheeks, desperate for some distance from his slick tongue. that always gave him up.” i’ll explain how i’ve tried to forget the running, but “what am i without it?” i’ll weep while laughing and then squeeze my eyes closed the way he did with his fists and wait to see if i can piece together a memory of what i will never be again. when i wake up i’ll realize i was never really asleep and you were never really there, just like the train we fought so passionately about. my soul’s worn weary from every moment i’ve spent pounding my feet into the trails i carved into my skin dedicated to creating a road map to the center of **** knows what. “i want to go back to the fire i lit, burning sweet nothings, and thank god, oh thank god i’ll find my way back if i trace the tracks on my body.” i will explain to you how i considered changing my name and running a little further. “maybe somewhere the people will worship me, maybe i can be someones messiah and flood their city with my tainted blood. bleed me dry, i will cry out to a crowd of fools.” you’ll cry too, but i want you to watch.