I can't say i believe much in forgiveness. Seems to me it's something like ghosts. Something spun in the mind and forged with the heart and puked out the mouth to splash onto the face of the "wrong-doer". Oh hot knives would be easier to understand. So with her voice in my ear she told me that she wanted me to come over. Said she loved me and that he was back in town and needed me. A likely story, have you seen me in emergencies? Ace, pro, super hero. I could hear his laugh and her giggle. That hot iron taste of nostolgia crept into my mouth. 2005 couldn't have been any better. I had the best of friends. Sure, i was growing more and more depressed and the cuts were getting deeper and deeper...but i really loved them. Them being Jess, Bistro, Amy, and of course jeff nixon. My high school jesse lacey/punk rock creepshow. Jess watched me destroy myself in mosh pits, my bloody nose running down my face...her hands always waiting for me to come back and hold them. Her tshirt always willing to mop up the mess i made of myself. Bistro would make me feel like i was important, like the older sister i never got to be to trivia or dolly...So when he attacked her and i punched him in the throat and then drug him to the dirty Quest floor i had to remember that i wasn't...and my hards are again dirty with someone elses blood. Amy just told me that i was pretty and she said she felt safe talking to me. Like i wasn't going to run away with all of her secrets. what she never knew is there was no place to go. to complete and hell and back, with books burned and boyfriends six feet under i was unable to move forward to any horizon that wasn't covered with coke or blood.

Thanksgiving had me burning the roof of my mouth on carmel apple pie. Text messages buzzing in my jeans and the snow causing the tree leaves to freeze. My head was broken from all the medicine and stories, both provided from bistro the night before. She poured her heart out, and my eyes leaked. We made some good use of my i.d. i could feel him in my town. The town that kills on average 2 kids a year. The town that builds the best hockey players and has 3 subways within a mile of each other.

My dad and i talked bob dylan, politics, religion, pop culture, and i told him about you. He laughed and asked how old you were. i'm constantly scared that my dad is dying. Everytime i see him i feel like he's aged a million years. If i look at him for too long i start to cry. i hope i die before him. Not in a stupid teenage angst way, i just know i won't make it. and i don't want to feel it. i'd rather feel nothing for the rest of my life if i never feel him die. that's my coin toss, my backhand wish, my deep dark one.

But everyone has left, let me down, mutilated, backstabbed, or just disappeared. But not my dad, so there's the reason for the crown, the cape, the whole fucking enchilada.

i shouldn't get shook up by history. By stupid phone calls and shadows. I shouldn't care about all the death that couldn't be stopped. I wouldn't have seen the signs anyways.


i have pockets full of smoke.