I can't remember
a night when I wasn't lulled to sleep
by the comforting sound of gunshots

I try
every night
I dig a little deeper
a little further back
nothing yet

Instead I remember
the night my father
carrying the triggerman's burden
turned the barrel on himself

I dig back further
to Mom's face
her soulless eyes
and the impatient hunger of an
starving child

The first time I watched  a man die
it wasn't a man anymore
they told me
just like my mother wasn't
my mother anymore

Further still
to the newscast
warning everyone to stay
inside their homes
glass shattering
my father's shotgun
pulled from retirement

I dig deeper
a faint and fuzzy
barely breathing memory
Dad smiling
the plop of a lure in the water
a tug on the line
excitement
laughter
more tugging and

BANG

****!
I lost it

Sometimes
I think about you
and about the gun
on the table beside my bed
in the sanctuary

I think about staying up late
even though it was a school night
and macaroni and cheese

I couldn't cook it to save my life
but you never minded
you were just going to smother it
with ketchup anyway

We'd watch old horror movies
and you'd laugh
when you should have screamed
and fell asleep before the end

I'd tuck you in
kiss your forehead
and channel-surf for some comedy
to lighten the mood

I think about the day it happened
how I secretly hoped the gun would jam
or misfire
and you would come at me
jaw unhinged
looking nothing like my angel

Then we'd be together
eating the flesh of some nameless passersby
yours
probably covered in ketchup

But the gun didn't jam
my aim was unfortunately perfect

I think about how
I was probably lying
when I told you
that you wouldn't feel a thing

The only thing I like
about nights like this
is that it gets so dark
and the skies are so clear
that they look like
the little boy who trapped us all here
decided to have mercy
and pin-***** little tiny airholes
in the lid of our mason jar

but there aren’t enough
to make a difference

Her lit cigarette burns
so brightly from the porch
against the darkness
like a lighthouse
...or a bug zapper

I don’t see how anyone
can smoke at a time like this
when the air is so heavy
it’s like breathing cement

there is a sunken silhouetted imprint
where you used to sleep
you’d spent so much time there in those last days
I don’t think it will ever forget you
things are not going to spring back
to the way they were before
no matter how much we want them to
try as we might not to
when we go
we leave behind residue
your room still smells like you
your fingerprints are still resting on your keyboard
your reading glasses, unfolded, lay on the night stand
beside your bed
next to your half-finished crossword puzzle book
and a pen
everything is just how you left it
but different
heavier maybe
plastic
like an elaborate stage full of props
like there’s no way this is real
but it is
and we can’t stand to look
at the world you left behind
at all of the residue
forced to contemplate the reality
that you are no longer in

My eyes are pulsating
surrounded by redness
from the overuse of my tear ducts lately

Pain radiates throughout my chest
in perfect cadence with my breath
in go all my plans and dreams of living for living sake
and out comes the remains:
shards of a self that was not whole to begin with.

It sort of looks like a painting I saw once
on the wall at a café
where I frequently perform
or whatever it is that I do

Whatever this is
a living, it is not
as I am all too often reminded

“What do you do for a living, Josh?”
I breathe
in go all the things I hate about myself
out comes everything else

I feel as though I’ve poisoned myself
and I feel as though I deserve it
but this is not a cut-myself cry about my feelings -emo *****-poet
lying in this bed, crying to his father
because someone hurt his feelings
these are not proud words

I am not that pathetic
am I?

I feel like a water balloon
pricked with a pin
not at the bottom
bursting all over in a two second eruption
but at the top
trickling
ever so slowly

Out  go
in comes
another moment further  from breakdown
one more breath closer
to laughing at myself in the mirror
and telling myself I’ll be okay

“What do you do for a living?”
I breathe
“Very funny, Josh, but how do you make money?”
I don’t

Remember that chick
who pulled her hair back in a ponytail
had glasses
and wore ripped jeans
that she Sharpied murals on
out of boredom.

You’d see her in class sometimes
mumbling to herself
and doodling
while the teacher droned on
about the scientific method
and she always made you curious
but you could never get close enough
to hear what she was saying
or see what she was writing.

She promised herself that one day
she’d keep a diary
to keep track of the truth
but every time she tried
it turned into a collection of
half-thought-poems
and half-drawings of half-things
half-human and half-something else.

Never autobiographical
never the truth.

She seemed like the kind of girl
who is a self proclaimed vegan
scrawny little thing
with ex-hippie parents
like if you ever talked to her
she would be all in for face
about “going green man.”

So she took you by surprise
when she beat the fattest kid in the class
at that hot-dog eating contest
that chubby ******* didn’t stand a chance.

She told me one day
that she thinks
the truth is just the lie
that you tell yourself the most often.

People called her “book-smart”
because she wore glasses
and was bad at math.
But she wasn’t really.

She was people-smart
in the way a scientist is rat-smart.

She’d sit on the swings at recess
and watch people
her eyes were concerned
like there was something they had
that she lacked.

Her locker was always empty
she took everything home
every night
she left
no residue
no aftermath
no memory behind.

She dreamed of living out of her car
and opening a coffeeshop
and being free.

She knew she was destined
to prove there was no such thing as destiny.
That we make our own reality.

And all of this you found
endearing and admirable.

Remember that chick?

...of course you don't.