It's not just you

Heat comes down hard like I asked for it to.

Heat comes down hard like I asked for it to. Yeah, I feel guilty, like I made the conditions that got you sick, that gives me an excuse. Did it because I’m not right, or at least some part of me isn’t. The part that cares about the stuff that fills in all the gaps between. In moments of nothing, I stare wide eyed at the ceiling and let my anxiety turn senseless and erotic. My body is pointless, what if I wasn’t even talking about me?

Reflections don’t feel strong enough to conjure anything worth titling. My friend reminds me all too suddenly that there is always a reason someone becomes an addict. Are you talking to me?

I meet a relative I didn’t know I had, he makes me nervous. He reminds me of that part of myself. The part that would stay hidden in the basement for years. Cigarettes on the porch, what are you most looking forward to? You asked me. I came up with something but it all sounded like lying. You smile at me anyways, you say that sounds nice. Hands on the pavement, you push yourself to your feet and ask again if I’m ready to go back inside.

When I met you I wanted to be with you, and I asked you to draw a picture of your life for me. Now, when I think about you I can fill in the pieces. It’s the things you think of when you’re alone and you’re driving, those are the things I would like to know.

That summer, she tells me, that was the summer it happened. What happened? My phone is losing connection. I just want to hear you, I have so much to say! I know how you feel! It’s in me too! That summer I was there, I saw it happen. You don’t even have to tell me, I already know!

No… she says back real quiet… you weren’t there.

She tells me they held hands on the hill and watched the fireworks together. I ask her one more time, are you sure I wasn’t there?

I’m sure.

Well, I remember it like it’s mine.

It’s not the same.

Tell me one more time-

That summer, that was the summer it happened. 38 degrees at night. She was drunk, I had been watching her drink for hours. Not like I wasn’t, I always was. I felt like a pervert because I couldn’t stop looking at her belt buckle. Or her hands, whatever. Her jeans, fuck.

The way it feels returning to a place that once used to feel nice, but you destroyed it, so now you sleep on pillows with no cases, and alone. Night breeze through the open door. Good painkillers. Resting, this is just resting.