sharpie scars on gas station sinks, and "for a good time" still staining my thigh
(splatters of red on a ceramic floor are the only remains of a three am high)
the ballpoint names are fading away, red and white under flickering bulbs
somebody's number is left on my hip, **** it and see if I ever grow old
neon blue and a pale yellow buzz, xenon and glass no different from flies
lighting bandages and a Trojan box for moments of warmth before the flame dies
years of stories on bathroom stall doors, but all that remains is dates and a time
I write my name over cracked reflections, say a prayer for somebody to know they are mine.
this is. a mood. like when you're in a gas station on a road trip and its 3 or 4 in the morning and it's empty and the light is so artificial and bright and its the most and least alive you could feel? and it's like your depression is alive but also gone? idk