Syrope really this is all my fault...i should have warned you of the dangers...the hidden undercurrents involved in your tucking my hair behind my ear, your using your fingertips to tilt my kiss me in midsentence, your hand in the middle of my back...pulling me against you, your unabashedness at people seeing us - together. see, now you've gone and done these things and you have no idea what you've done to me. the only problem with feeling so safe in your arms is how i feel when i'm not in your arms. i think you could protect me, but i'm not sure i deserve it. 031217
threadless and then I look up, and everyone in the bar is staring at me. I realize I have been reading the fucking letter - out loud. My head starts to pound. because I wasn't supposed to tell anyone about any of it. about my trouble, or how I got here. about the baby. about where I had seen her last. it was all there, in the letter, the emptiness, the insanity, the screeching moments of pain. sickness welling up. reading it out loud. I'm still doing it, still reading it. "it." here, in the bar. "was." reading. "all." must stop, strangers, staring. "my." stop. "fault." stop. stop. stop.

my head swims. I look down, light goes dark, apeture decreasing. pounding. swallow hard, breath. eyes focus again. the bar, my empty drink, my hands, in my hands, it's gone, my hands. the letter is gone. it wasn't. gone. it was a letter. I was reading it. I am holding money. It's money. my hands, a five dollar bill. check pockets, all my pockets. sweating, pounding. no letter. nothing in any pocket. no letter. no wallet. no reason. gone.

I look up again. nobody is staring at me. Two old men, toward the back, the TV, the bar man. it's quiet. Wheel of Fortune. Five dollar bill still in my hands. Pounding, sweating, silent.

I cough, the bar man turns. I buy another drink, hand trembles ever so sightly, I hand the bill over. gone.
what's it to you?
who go