cowboy boots on pavement

I run home from the train. Slap slap slap. My breath is tight in my chest, but i'm scared if I stop something will consume me. I run. I run away from everything that pursues me. you, the hot girl from hair/class/cubby, people trying to grab me, to consume my soul. I run with my sanity and my credit card. I run with potential love that has not been given out and I run with talent that has not yet been tapped. I run with frustration and guilt. I pass the hipster couple that got off the train with me. I pass the pimped out van that the two guys live in. I pass the freezing streets until I am home. Then I dig in my pockets for the keys. My lungs are gasping and dying. I need to run more. The cold laughs at me. I go upstairs. I want to take a sharp clean razor blade to my skin and dissect myself slowly. I want to peel back the top layer of skin and see what is underneath. Then I will sew all the layers back together when i understand. Then I will get a big band-aid and put it over the wound to heal myself.
I have a sock from my adolescence that is caked in brown blood. It is the reminants of all my confusion. I looked at it last time I was home. Why do I keep this? In reality it is gross, in my memory it is necessary. This sock contains my healing. My break up in the Denny's waiting area, the sleep-over on the farm, and probably even the crazy hookah stealing business. All of my pain has been manifested on this sock. I know now this isn't how i should deal with my pain, but there is something appealing about a visceral healing experience instead of an emotional one I cannot track. I just want to feel better.
I'm in bed now. The air mattress creaks and I think about the rug I left in Queens. The door grinds against the floor downstairs. My roommate reaches a climactic agreement with her boyfriend. I am solitary with my thoughts and my words. I will teach the neighbor to sing. I will not eat cupcakes before my photo shoot. I will not fall victim to running home on a regular basis.

It is hard for me to remember places without you. These places belonged to me first, but I shared them with you and it is hard to not feel that they are tainted. I gave you the Brooklyn Bridge, which used to be mine. I took you there and held your hand and now it is hard for me to remember that it used to be mine. I gave you myself and now it is hard for me to feel whole again and I hate that. I was a whole person and I thought that I would be whole again without you, but there is a little piece of me that is still yours. I think you must give yourself to others easily, because you have found so many other people to give yourself to in this short time. I still find it hard to believe it has been five months since we gave up our life together. My dreams make it feel like it was last week. I felt like I had lost myself with you, but now I feel like I can never get that piece of myself back and I am scared you are giving that piece of me to other people. I don't want to give myself to anyone else because I can't deal with losing more pieces and places.

Broken

We throw punches. Blows that smack into my face and travel down to my heart. I am bloody and mangled, so I hit back. It goes on like this, but nothing is visible. There is no real blood pouring from my nose and ears. Only the sense of hollowness. I try to be a better person, but I feel so hurt and empty and you look fine. So I try to make you hurt, I try to make you cry. If you cry then I know I am not alone. I think if you cry I will feel a little better, but you always have more to throw at me. We both try to have the last jab and I am sure that you are just as crumpled and broken as I am, but it doesn't seem to help. I don't know what I thought would happen. Maybe I wanted you to come to me so we could comfort each other, but why would you run to the person who can't stop kicking the shit out of you?

retch

My head was so foggy and my eyes kept crossing on their own accord. I don’t remember drinking that much, but I guess I had. I stood politely waiting for the bathroom as all the alcohol started to come up. I hold it. I don’t want to be a bother. You get me a cup. That in itself was so gross most people would have left, but you didn’t. I think later about what happened to the cup. I am humiliated. I can’t help thinking as you stroke my back and tie back my hair “someone is taking care of me, someone cares about me.” I am used to taking care of other people and usually the favor isn’t returned. but this is something different. I guess it should be expected that if your friend gets sick, then you should take care of them. I sat next to girls I barely knew with their heads in the toilets on many college nights. I put girls to bed and tucked them in afterwards. I don’t usually find myself in compromising situations, but when I do, the one person I want to be taking care of me isn’t. This time was different. So even though my head was reeling and my stomach flopping, I was ok. It was terrible, but in a way it was kind of special.