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nineteen
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We were not inside of a book or a building. We were freelance aeroplanes, tens of twenties of seventy-five tall saltines. This is how they fed you, and not through a tunnel. This is the how, not the why. Don't ask me the Why, it is not for us. soaped, masked, taped, split.
This is the long wait that is every part of my day away from you. This song has a sound like a creaking door and I worry, every time, that someone has gotten past the lock. I thought, already, about what I would throw at the figure sneaking into my doorway. The book was first, but I've kicked it to the floor. the keyboard, now. These thoughts provoke my lust for pepper spray. A stun gun. A gun, at all, or a sword. A slingshot. And the news is not what frightens me, its the warnings from the girl who is a friend of my friend, and the knowing that there is, yes, a serial rapist who is being carelessly frequent in his visits to homes within walking distance from my place, where I will be alone until J comes back next week. And the media and the real people will both keep talking.
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060706
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