Kerouac Kids.

I get it. It’s a buzz, literally. It tingles in your knees first, which is odd considering they’re usually just used as cornerstones. Your very foundation begins to sizzle. It’s been so long since I felt my entire body all at once before. The sizzling in the cherry moon is the onomatopoeia accompanying your limb’s newfound jolts. It burns across your scalp and into your eye sockets next. With a heavy head bobbing, your tummy fills with a lovely, ethereal sickness. It’s all consuming. For me, that’s three drags of a cigarette.
A cigarette, with which I’m not looking to build a tolerance again. Three is a lucky number.
It doesn’t matter how many times I smoke. That’s always the outcome. Any more and I want to throw up.
The club around me revels in their outlandish, extraordinary tales. I sit and listen, but I’m not impressed or disappointed. I just want them to know they’re heard. I know my place, and I keep my opinions to myself. I don’t tell them how I feel, because no one wants to hear how someone’s knees feel at the moment. They’re not interested in joints unless they’re lit. But, I get it.

Kerouac Kids.

Ghost.

I haven’t been out at 3 a.m. in a while. By while, I mean without you.
The fog was covering the mountains in a thick layer, smoothing any jagged details. It was humid, but I still wore the flannel you liked me to keep in the backseat of my car for this very purpose. Still tucked into my security blanket, I went to sleep in the middle of my bed.
This morning, I grumbled as I took out the vacuum and swept up the place. Topsoil littered the floor and napkins were shredded under the couch. It wasn’t until I saw a pair of paws playing quietly alone that I realized we all have a silent caretaker.
I have to choose who I want to care for me, as well as who deserves my care.

Ghost.

Sunset.

I took down my hair and flew through the yellow lights. Each intersection had a woman on the corner, waiting for their chance to move. I flew to you.
Later, I ate with you but looked at the sky alone, with a quiet and sole interpretation.
I asked, “I wonder how many times we’ve looked at a sky, called it beautiful, and then completely forgotten it?” I asked.
You said. “All I heard was ‘completely forgotten’,” you said.
Grinning, I explained why that fleeting moment was ironic.
In that moment, we were the sky.

Sunset.

Ego Death.

I remember every face I meet and the name it owns.  This seems like an interesting addition to a résumé and a useful parlor trick to use once the party is over.  It should be but not when growing up and making mistakes in a city that fits in between a couple of hills we collectively decided to call mountains.  The bodies of the faces saunter and snicker and carry on, passing by like it means something to me.  It does.  I remember every moment.  The emotions they left with me.  The secrets they told me.  Annoyance makes my pulse radiate heat, just like how pavement feels on a southern day in July.  Even though I regularly cut ties without much motive, I still reserve the right to selfishly froth in my own ill wishes.  It’s only when they pass and I remain unnoticed am I shaken back into my senses.  I realize it’s likely they’ve gone another day without thinking of me.  It’s vexing to be overlooked.  It festers and grows, turning real individuals into memories and ideas as flat as newspaper.  No one has ever ignored me.  They’ve just been walking past me, engrossed in their own valid thoughts.

Ego Death.

Stop.

Have I locked the door?  The door is locked.  Pull the handle, once, twice.  Doesn’t budge.  Now push it in so the latch clicks.  Click.  Thank god, I’m home.  There’s a roast chicken sitting on the counter.  Who doesn’t refrigerate a chicken?  Has that just been taken out or has it been sitting there for hours like the dishes sitting in the sink?  The floor is sticky.  The stovetop is crusty.  I cleaned last week.  No one thanked me.  Did I lock the door?  Look back.  It’s locked.  I’m exhausted.  I need to rest, but that will take up an hour of my evening.  My nightly ritual takes an hour and a half.  Studying takes up three.  If I do all of it, I’ll be getting in the shower at 10 and sliding into bed at 11:30.  I can’t rest, but I’ll lay in bed while I study.  When did I last wash these sheets?  I wash them weekly, but they feel dirty.  I feel dirty.  I feel guilty.  I feel like I’m not doing enough.  I’m not smart enough.  I’m not strong enough.  I’m not enough.
Stop.
Breathe.
1, 2, 3.

Stop.

Recollection.

Everything I have ever loved has had a previous owner.  I carry the treasures of others securely in the crook of my arm and pretend they’re mine.  A jacket my father stained with sweat around the collar and cuffs.  A pendant given to my sister made of onyx and gold.  Field guides from thrift stores with inscriptions and bookmarks and cramped annotations.  These are my pickings.  Stolen nostalgia is piling up around me.  It’s warming me through the winter, but I want to find my own way out.  When will I begin creating my own trail of artifacts?  Who will want to exhume my spirit?

Recollection.