Blood soiled cotton balls rest inside and have started to collect around the bathroom garbage receptacle.
The open bottles of rubbing alcohol and hydrogen peroxide that have become fixtures on the sink are usually the first objects to wish me good morning.
The alcohol stings when it gets inside. But the sting doesn’t last.
I’m really glad the sting doesn’t last.
But…I’m not sure that it’s actually working. And I’m not sure if help is coming, either.
I started drinking coffee as a little guy. I’m not quite sure why but I think it was to be like my dad.
We used to have these thin pastel colored plastic cups that were super faded and every Saturday he would heat me some coffee to drink with my cartoons. He’d bring it with a smile.
Sundays we had hash browns and egg sandwiches after church. But we never had coffee.
S’not good for a kid.
Sidney was short. Stout. Conflicted by the horrors that human beings could inflict on one another. But he didn’t cringe much. He was cuddly.
He still managed to smile at strangers as they passed by. And he stopped having that dream about falling to his demise with a smile on his face and scorn in his heart.
But he never spoke. Important thoughts, images glued together for him by him needn’t escape. No one knew him. Until…
When I was a kid I would spend a lot of time in the mud. I’d fall down a lot and really sink my hands into the fresh earth.
I would love scraping the dirt from underneath my finger nails and picking large chunks from my hair.
But the best part was making my mom laugh at how dirty I was. Always more amazed then the last time, her laughter was the prettiest sound I’d ever heard.
Those letters that I wrote you, the ones that I destroyed before you had the chance to read them; the words are inscribed on the folds of my brain. They’ve been stored away underneath bullet pierced blankets and less than half burnt out candles.
No one paces the floor of that attic anymore. While whispers and moonlight serenades float beneath the door, the keyhole has been filled with memories that prevent everyone, even me, from getting in.
Tattoo cream. The smell of it has left a stain on my senses. It’s not a particularly fragrant scent. And it’s not particularly noticeable to the unknowing either. But it remains.
Like the smell of fresh cut grass, zippo fluid, or that body spray that symbolizes you, tattoo cream is everlasting.
In parlors, from glances at my wrist, and whenever I hear that fucking song, tattoo cream enters into a thought bubble and fills my blood stream.
When I was 18 I went to California. Bored with what my 18 year old prospects had provided, I didn’t feel like my current state had anything more to offer than waste. So, I quit the baseball team and picked up recreational drugs.
I wasn’t expecting anything but variety. Well, variety came in the form of awareness. Awareness that opened my eyes to things that people didn’t have passions for and I ended up spinning to where I landed..
Stilted ideas about what life should be. Perfect predictions that lead to let downs and major scrapes on what should have been your cushy ride to the coast. Is this all true? Does what we see tell our mind and heart how to react to the cold night or the warm sun? Sometimes it might be better to be senseless or hopeless or worthless. Good thing “sometimes” is a word not spoken amongst friends or your faith.
BLONDE ON BLONDE 