I did it again, mama....
     I took your words to heart.

But, I left them there.


"Don't touch it baby, it will hurt you!"
You would always say this to me.
Mama,
     Why can't I stop touching?
And mama,
     He wasn't a stranger....
              ....but afterwards....
     he.... became.....one.

You were right, mama.
     Strangers do hurt me.

Can't I just be your little girl again?
With my scraped knees
And my bruised chin?
Falling out of trees
or off my bycycle
Where there would be a kiss
To make me feel better.
AND a hug!

God.... Mama,
   Read me a story
of knights in shining armor,
Of princesses,
Of those fairytale men.
Can I trade you stories for mine?
For they are far much better,
They'd loll me to sleep,
I wouldn't cry...

I did it again, mama.....
     I took your words to heart.

But, I left them there.

His soul I could feel struggling in my hands
as I choked his memories and all his love he ever had
every smile he layed
every tear he  cryed
every time he fell of his bycycle as a kid
and every time a bully knocked down his lunch tray
was all rushing through my hands
as his face went purple and his skin went dry
His eyes rolled in the back of his head saying goodbye
to his life of not making the cut
to his dads temper and his lashing out on the boys back
the smell of leather feared the boy
and the lack of social skills made him a easy target
He stepped on the wobbling stool
He wrapped my arms around his neck
and with one last scream
he said thank you

my room is supported by tons of concrete, metal, a bit of wood and insulation.  In my chamber, theres an odious and embarassing dispaly of empty bottles, beer and wine bottles... casino bycycle cards for good measure, untouched pringles... and varios other comforts and pleasures.  

Adjacent to the counter stands an enormous concrete support beam, almost invisible with its cream stucco finish.  almost a place to put your hand while you are stretching, instead.  

My back feels stiff beaucause I danced too much, and what I really want is to feel something so comulsurary and veiny and terrible that I feel lucid with liberyy and pride.  These kinds of feelings, one has to look for them.  They aren't on the streets, there in some sort of sweat dream found when fixing something in the microwave or standing in the correct corner of the space, turniing on the floor lamp just so.  

I need to find it.  I must find it...