Lochloosa

I crouch and tear her soft silky wings and try not to think of his manic smile that makes me throw up all over my small frame. There's someone in my head begging with everything to get out and I'm trying so hard to let him, but the only thing I'm getting in return is the banging and shouting and dreaming and vomiting and not love and not hope. I wake up and immediately shut my eyes because I'm afraid of dreams becoming real and shaking me towards insanity. My whole body is itchy because of the alpaqua cardigan someone loaned me to inhale smoke in, and my throat burns with disgust and so do my eyelids because I stay up late thinking about you and her and can't quite figure out what's happening, except that my eyes are heavy every time I want to breathe which makes it difficult to live. I used to bite my nails the shortest I could get them because I was so nervous of living, but that was before and after the zoloft and the amphetamines and hydrocodone fit I had that left me a little bit laid back because I don't view the world through a junkies eyes anymore. I can feel sleep coming on and I don't fear it the way I used to. I don't fear dreams, thoughts, spoken words. All of it's dimmed down to the point that it doesn't matter if I sit on the stairwell and let smoke drift from my open mouth because who's to say what I'm supposed to to? It doesn't matter if I sit outside all day in the tree in my front yard and listen to her beauty reverberate through her limbs, while white butterflies all named Wendy rest on her leaves, just like they used to when I was little and I never stopped running. Running through playgrounds and houses and buildings, holding hands and visiting the 'lady upstairs' who gave us toys to play with in her two room apartment because for some reason it seemed so much bigger than the one we were used to. I miss looking at everything through a four year olds eyes, I miss hearing our mothers speak in whispers about things we weren't meant to hear but did anyways because we hid effectively and knew how to lay flat on the ground and still have room for both of our ears to reach the sounds under the door.

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I liked the way you curved and the way you sounded, so I let you hold my hand and touch my neck while we were at the beach, and we drove around San Diego while you and your friend smoked in the trunk of the car, and there were eight of us compiled in a compact car but no one cared because we were having a nice time. I made up an excuse when I got to the airport to cover my swollen lips and why they hadn't gone away in two days and why the probably wouldn't in three. I remember feeling pleasantly warm, even though my back was burnt more than I understood was possible, and I didn't give a shit. I didn't wear shoes for three nights in a row and didn't care. I let smoke rings drift out of my mouth on the woolen blanket spread out under me on the beach, while you traced patterns on my thighs and I pretended that it didn't drive me insane and almost make me buckle over. I remember sunrises and sunsets and aching to like all of this so much when all I could think about were the golden flecks in the sand and how I wanted to be free without you and your fucking phone calls every second. I never once listened to anyone about everything mean they said about you until you might as well have taken one of my arteries and tapped out one of your many Winston cigarettes on it, you fucking asshole. Now I understand just as much as I understand word construction. No one wants to believe they were left for something that should have never happened in the first place, but thanks for that one, buddy.