she was over there  

they say. I say. I’m not a writer. I write.

dim lamps behind me. that leafy smell.

signaling death. death always has a smell.

sitting beneath lights still makes me remember.

what made me


salt down my cheeks left side right side.

every time I finish. finish thoughts. complete memories. things

made up in my head.

I imagine you throwing me up against the wall. hollow sound of dry wall. hollow sound deep in my ribs in my skull in my pelvis.

walls that box us

I look up. I’m somewhere else. Back to my place among the dead


make the ground wet.

inside. you inside of me.

you scratched. still bleeding. do you remember. I drank too much. Sometimes I still do.