a younger me would have swallowed,
but these days my lungs are so full of fear and smoke
that inhalation makes me dizzy.

my brain is epitaphs and popsicle stick jokes,
and i worry about trains.
you worry about nothing.

you worry loud.

i sit shredding a napkin,
head bowed so that you don't see my lips move
when i murmur to myself
things i wish i'd told you when
you were real and when
i still knew what freedom meant.
i don't regret anything,
except maybe missing that assembly.

i would rather do drugs
than do you.