It's a Thursday night
and I'm higher than I've been
all week.

The boy told me this was the good stuff (as he does every week) so I took it on faith that he was exaggerating.

Two blows later
and I can barely read the late Mr. Vizzini's words.
My body feels warmer than it has
since November of 2012,
and my face is itchier than my last year in Boy Scouts, circa 2008.

The walls of my room seems a lighter shade of purple than the have in years
and my carpet is not as stained as it was this morning.

Old Polaroids of my parents' wedding are tacked on my wall,
and in those pictures my grandmother is the most beautiful women in the world.

Thank God for muscle memory,
and thank God for compulsive *******,
and thank God unsharpened pencils,
and thank God for everything else that my body knows how to do and everything that I can see in my room and put down in this poem.

There is no purpose to this,
but today I asked a friend of mine
why she is always looking at the sky
and she told me because if she looks at it long enough
it isn't the sky at all.
It is her
and she can speak to herself
and she can thank God for compulsive ******* and ****** science fiction literature.