10 things about this night

that song we used to sing
about those records she all scratched
played on my tape deck
for the first time
since I had all those records shipped down south to someone else's she


these little notes
i keep pulling out of my pockets
scratched onto pieces of receipt from taco bell
never feel like money but i keep holding my breath


i turned my bed into a desk
my desk into a tv stand for a coworker
my coworker into a pusher


my pupils are growing sensitive to the florescent lights in my house
in that they consider 
the feelings
fears
and shadows
those lights cast on all they see


when i
walk into
my house
with a bag that is brown
i feel
like that
kid from
parenthood
with all the porno tapes


instead of the beer in the freezer being left in for too long
i drank it warm


i told myself
TEN
before you go to bed
and that was hours ago


the skin is all back
on the tips of my fingers
in case you were wondering


standing in the desert
is only worthwhile
to see all the stars that remind me of her freckles


i used to write this
to the melodies of songs
that i did not write
but claimed as my own
sloppy handwritten thoughts on suicide