Tuesday, June 26, 2012

But me, I'm...

The spots on my right arm that I pick, you can see them. It is not covered in ink like the other. You can see the blood and the scabs and the puss. I stop mid-sentence to scratch and pick and bleed and dream. Every minute or so I dab at the wound to clear the things that drain out. My fingers run through my hair and blood bursts from my lip; my teeth have split it again.

The locks were changed at the other apartment when I was moving out the last of my things. There is a box and leather jacket I never recovered. I went back a few nights ago with crowbar that helped me back in. The jacket and box and new resident were gone. So I left the crowbar and took a bottle of wine and walked to that park where the maids smoke pot after work. No one was there so I opened the bottle and called Leslie to pick me up.