A black truck parked backwards with its cocky ******* wheels makes me *****.
Makes me scared, takes me there.
Brick,
rough on hands,
the violent shaking,
sounds of a plastic grocery bag ripped away.

Who knew,
years later,
I'd be spending my free time in this place?

Memories I try to forget
but know deeply
I'll always need to hold.

In love with these visions, like, "Thank you wet nurse,
I still cry for you!"

Just when, exactly, and why,
did my eyes begin to see the past? When did life
start spinning down the *******?

I'll tell you when
and exactly
why.

It was hail. And because I wore sweat pants. On April 14th. And because of those cigarettes, stupid god ****** cigarettes. And definitely plastic bags, ones that end up killing unsuspecting innocent sea creatures while they're swimming through the waves.