a stroll to the pharmacy.

i could escape here... couldn't i? i could take some of the things that i own and put them in drawers. wouldn't that make them my drawers? la la la la. it's possible.
truly, i'm not sure what i'm capable of these days. i know i can break a heart, i can tell a lie, and i know that i can screw up big time; although... most anyone could do that if they wanted to.

i can take a stroll around the corner to the pharmacy. i can shove my hands in my pockets pretending that they're cold. but what is it really? am i hiding them because my skin is a picture book of who i used to be?
are these burns a constant reminder of what not to do?

my skin holds secrets in every little crack. every pore expels a piece of my past. the day that my "grandfather" was thrown out to sea. the memory of meeting him a month beforehand for the first time. the feeling of me not being sorry that he was dead. the pit in my stomah watching everyone else cry as i tried to force something to sneak past my iris. i didn't even know the old bastard. the cancer slowly ate him away, but i had nothing and no one to mourn for. not even these hands. not even the cache crawling out of my skin and finding it's way onto the new york streets. not the secrets and memories and love notes that wander around the sewers intimidating alligators.

we dressed in black.
we were more than casual.
his face was reflected on the black urn but the fluorescent bulbs.
no one there knew his real name.

let's get going.

jimmy, you might as well be dead.
he deflated a long, long time ago with that red balloon.

happy birthday jimmy. stop running.