Its insane how many
memories can be held in
a park.
Or even the
library it's attached
to.
And the McDonalds down
the road.
A couple basements
in one apartment
complex. A couple
basements in another.
The hallway where
your friend used
to live. A concrete
platform.
A couple muddy short cuts.
The gas station across the
street you stole a
30 pack of beer from
and ran here to drink it.
Oh god.
All the times you've
gotten drunk here.
All the times
you ****** in cars here.
You rolled a joint here
once too.
The Walmart over
there where
you got arrested.
That roof top over there.
When you snuck onto elementary
school grounds. That forest
you got high in and couldn't
find your way back home. The
streets you prowled
and made yours
trying to feel alive.

I wish I had enough
time to tell you
why the world is
so cruel.
Or, hell, even enough
words.
Maybe even enough
experience with its
cruelty.

We were all born
innocent.
What turned us
into monsters?
What turned us
into wolves that
nip at lambs.
Their cotton
wool now stuck between
our teeth.

Is it because we
Don't floss enough
And there are
now dead memories
mashed in our
mandibles.
Were our canine
teeth not cut
down soon enough
when we were young.
Did they give me
glasses too soon?
Is that why
I'm still so
blind to the
traps I keep
walking in?

Maybe if they
had waited until
3rd grade instead
of 2nd I'd have
a sense of the
hairs
on the back of my
neck rising.

Maybe I'd have
a sense of danger
instead of giggling
as I fall off cliffs.

You get older not with
time but experience.
Or so I've heard.
I've heard that if
you have enough
memories people will
call you old.

Who the hell gave
memories so much
power.

Who allowed memories
from just a bottle
cap to break down my
walls like they were
fiber glass in winter.

I'm not a glass doll.
So why am I chipping.
Why are my insides
cracking and outsides
freezing in place.

Who gave him the
power to put life
inside of me, and
then decide that
I was too much.

Who let him
play God?

He is beer and
behind the library.
He is cut fingers
muddy knees
bruised knuckles.
Sore necks.
Sore muscles.
He is this ring
The hoodie at home.
The back ground
music to us
*******. He is that
**** van, taco bell
and his dad's wrecked
tourus.
The hand I held
as my knees knocked.

He's the one who's
always been there.

Nobody has ever
made me feel so
full and contempt.

I think of myself
as a scavenger. A
voulture, but I feed off
The living because I
fear I am already
dead.

He made me feel alive.

Now tell me who let
him play God.