Today is Sunday.
You watch your mother in her long green dress walk quietly over the sprinklers in your front yard. You don't even question the reason, you question how someone can do everything so slowly, how someone can be so fragile and yet never afraid.

Today is Sunday.
You listen to the gravel being pushed underneath the tire of your Father's car as it comes down the driveway, and you don't hear anything else for the rest of the week.

don't fear the enemy
That attacks you
But the fake friend
That hugs you

Because she told me not to drink
She told me to stop drinking
So I didn't
Even if everybody pushed me to.

But then my mind flashed these things
that I can't ignore
I remember how
you didn't have to remind me
not to drink
and I said
'I won't drink.
I miss you.
I don't like it here.
I'd rather be with you.'

I remembered you
but still thought of her.

I wonder why
I still remember you
but choose to be with her.

i open the front door & a small
man with his shirt buttoned all
the way up asks me if i'd like to
buy a pocket bible, so i can
worship wherever i go. i ask if i
can fit it in a flask & if it's okay
to take with whiskey. his eyelids
shut like a casket as he touches
his forehead, chest, right shoulder
then left shoulder. tells me i'm
going to hell. i crawl back
onto my bar stool and drink from
the ceramic mug you glued back
together the night you saw my face
and pictured a room full of soft
things shattering. i can hear the
sound of a train & it's such a shame
that the nearest railroad is under
construction. it's such a shame that
the floor of my mind is set up like
a child's playroom with plastic
train tracks set in the center & a
younger version of myself is sitting
in front of them playing with a
replica of the train my whole body
was begging to be kissed by.
ugh, kissing. my god. i'm so high.
kiss me in my death spot, the
spot that'll be where my life ends.
replace my train tracks with
a dollhouse. tell the soft things
that i love them. open my front door,
tell the small man to unbutton his
shirt, that not everyone buys
pants with pockets in them.
wake me up when i'm sober &
tell me to write an ending to this.
i cannot think of an ending. please
don't let me become it