I know a man who smiles with his gums pushed out he eats
turkey sandwiches on whole grain bread. he yells a lot when he is on
stage
is hailed a genius by a magazine. he is made.
a man like that wastes away my time.
he does a line of coke on the dresser of a too nice hotel. there is a
white curtain and he has a fake name. he says, you know everything
about me. and me like everyone else is informed of his sad little past.
I think he is a sad little man. I let him fuck me.
my story is I lean onto the table with the water in the clear glass,
lemon squeezed all over my fingers. I am painted onto courage and
painted as if he meant to hurt me.
I only question what it is that he sees in me that reminds him of
himself.
he wishes he could scratch away his face. he just shoves away his
pain and says he used to be a caveman.
I only question why his past defines him so. I start to think I am
haunted as well, and lines on dressers suddenly seem so attractive.
I met this man on a journey to complete self destruction. I can’t help
but wonder if he is wasted on my thanks. sometimes I still see him
while walking down the street, but I flick my head to the side, like I
have a terrible headache. this way we are destined to avoid each other
for at least, quite a while.
