A car passes by outside, speeding down Mattingly. My shade is drawn shut so I can only hear the sound of the engine. My mind wanders. I'm supposed to be writing something else, but now I'm writing this instead.

Today, for me, has been dull. I watched Stranger Than Fiction and thought about how there might still be beauty in this world. I will never know any of these people in passing cars. Their stories are insignificant to me, I've got my own shit to sift through.

I guess I wish them all the best, though. I guess. But I wish they'd stop using Mattingly as a shortcut. I grew up here, and it's more than that.

When I cannot sleep at night, I sometimes pretend to be on a boat.

I have no idea why.

I hate the ocean. I'd hate to be on a boat.

But it helps me fall asleep. Maybe it's the isolation that comes with being on a boat. This thought that, "I'm alone on a boat in the middle of the ocean. Guess I should sleep, not like there's much else for me to do."

And just like that, I'm out cold.

I type down the words as they are fed to me.

Through this— ugh, gross—

through this little earpiece they shoved

into my ear canal.

And it feeds me this message

that keeps repeating,

“stop biting your nails.”

But they are so tasty

and if I don’t bite my nails,

what am I supposed to bite, bro?

A turkey samuel (new slang for sandwich)

I don’t like turkey samuels

unless they’re loaded with Mayo

and at that point it’s about as bad

for you as biting your nails anyway.

So I dig the earpiece out

And throw it on the ground

And stomp on it with

My comically large boots.

There’s definitely

something in the water.

Yep— yeah, I’m looking at it now.

A small, green creature and it looks up at

me and smirks.

This smug little “I got you now” smirk

and I think it has forgotten.

All I have to do is tip the cup and it’s world expands. Mine stays the same.

10 months ago now

she ended things between us.

She showed up to my dorm room and she had dyed her hair black.

But she said, while standing there avoiding eye contact, she said:

“Maybe we can see where we’re both at when I’m back. Because I want you in my life, even if it doesn’t feel that way right now.”

Am I an idiot to believe that? I want to believe her so badly.

Because now she is back but where am I?

I know where I am. I’m at home doing jack-shit as usual.

But where am I really and should I call?

She’s honest. Doesn’t waste her time with lies, so why would she lie about this?

I’ll call her soon.

There are two paths, and on one of them, we end up holding hands again like I have dreamed of for so long. The very existence of that path is enough for me.

There’s a panther sitting next to me on the old-leather couch. He purrs for a moment, then leans over and whispers, “She hates you, right?” And I say, “She kissed me just yesterday.” Then the panther extends his claws and rips open my flesh, but there’s no blood. There is bone, but no blood. She hates the sight of it, so I got rid of mine. Then the panther leans over and whispers, “She hates you, right?” And I think about how she fell asleep with her head on my shoulder and how much I don’t deserve the way she smiles at me.

I kissed her on the cheek for the first time and said, “I hope that was alright.” She said, “Of course it was,” and we kissed underneath the red glow of the exit sign for so long. Then the panther leans over and whispers, “Your brain ain’t right, buddy boy, now is it?” and I tell the panther to shove off. Go dig a hole out back by the septic tank and sleep with the sewage, you sad-sorry-sack-of-shitstained-shit.

And I wonder how long it’ll be before she realizes she hates me. Or how long it might be until I see that this couch isn’t leather, and that I bleed just fine.

i'm starting to think that

all love is facade.

when 4 years are spent

saying eventually

empty "i love you's"

i ask-

what, really, is the fucking point?

cutting yourself open

over and over

spilling yourself

into the brain of

someone who you'd

avoid if you saw them at

at an old, dirty gas station

five years down the road.

i am meant for this-

sitting in the dark getting drunk

and eating peanut m&ms.

my cheeks are tight from the dried tears

and I just want to hug my mom.

I don't want to die

anytime soon.

I've got too much shit

I've got to do still,

whether or not

you're a part of it.

But I want you to know-

not even a motorcycle

will fix your shit.

I will never forget

the last thing I said to you

when you called me

on a Tuesday night to say

we're done.

"I hope you find happiness. Goodbye."

Walking two houses down

with a bunch of cold beer in a cooler.

I can feel the beads of sweat

down my back and

the late-May sun beating down.

I am not a party guy.

I am stuck in myself.

But I am trying.

It feels like

I always know where

I want to go and

everyone I care about is

running in the opposite direction.

I can run, too.

I run home-

my purple bedroom walls bring me

back to a time when

I wasn't obligated to care.

A time when I could shut myself

off from the world,

create a fake one in my head

and live there until

Mom called me downstairs for dinner.

Maybe I'm

just missing something.

Maybe I'm just not good enough anymore

for these awkward, two-text-messages

a day conversations.

And You-

You Asshole-

if you make Mom cry

one more time I swear to

you I'll make you regret it.