all the pretty horses

I’m on drugs. Am I? Yes, I snorted I stole I ransacked I rampaged I am a monster. As I typed monster the music spoke monster. Cranberry juice can’t cover up the throat taste of k. I haven’t been writing and I’ve changed to a not-writer she says to be THAT oxymoron. Everything is uncomfortable and I’m high and I’m smashing my toes into each other and they’re pleading to god for salvation but he’s not listening. He’s up in my head with the cooks and the orange yellow egg yolks and those lights which bleat and blare and forget to write. And now I’m remembering the crazy, that oh yeah crazy that I forget the instant I feel like a citizen who can do the dance. I prefer the chicken dance more than the ordinary jam dance. I prefer salisbury steak and short songs and the zoo. 4:51am and why why why am I awake. Beep boop zoom zap the space cadet is my little sister. She used to say funny things like “I hate water, especially wet wet water” and lives across the stairs. She likes all kinds of water now, but she’s moving away. How do I face the nose and lips and eyes and ears? Those same shoulders I could wrap my arms around? Could I steal a baby girl and leave her on my windowsill until someone snatches up her steaming babycakes?