I Have No Memory

Dear K,
I don't have those moments. I don't have childhood. I spent it on liquor and cigarettes and silence and dumb little things that I thought would fill that little hole called my esophagus, or at least clog it for a minute. There are flashes now and then, there's a field of green and the smell of grass. Cool morning air, and sound and light. Everything gets hazier the harder I focus on them, and I lose the fight and start imagining the time I threw a dart at the wall and spent a week in my room.


I've caught your blues and I've thrown them all around my room. I found a spider in my salad tonight and threw at my television.

I've been in this place for close to 48 hours straight. I left to take the garbage out and that's it. It doesn't seem like the time went anywhere, but where does the smoke go from all the fires around the city? It gets high enough and disappears. There must be some holes up there we just can't find them with our metal wings.

Why is it so lonely in this crowded room? Who are these idiots calling me now? What do they want with me? I'm not that funny. I'm not a creature of light and shadows, I made myself from clay and wasted paper, receipts and cigarette butts, ashes smeared along a wall.

I'm not broken down, I was never really working, just skipping down the hall.

I don't want company, I just want someone to think of me, when they think of all the moments of their life, because I built myself without a memory.

Come on,
Get it together,
K