memories are made of this

memories are made of this

I used to wonder if

the worst thought you could have

would be that of a child, say

four years old,

alone and lost on a busy street and who

no one anywhere was looking for, but then

I grew up

and decided the worst realization must be how not one person in the world ever did or will care if you live or die, but now that I

have mellowed with age I realize the real

worst knowledge in the world is of just how much people truly do care if you live or die, and what will take place

when you choose the latter,

that’s when it shows, it all comes across now, all along how

loved you were,

starving,

hysterical,

jettisoned,

yadda yadda,

it all comes out when they put a

melancholy photo of you on the fridge for a month, grieving,

then gather all her best prose and process the sorrow, put her poems

in a magic book and draw straws to see who gets to decorate the cover, everyone shake your fists at the sky, lose a few pounds, cut yourself, bleed, ask God why, throw roses on her dirtpile, get real drunk now, standup/falldown

cry

cry,

and…

And?

Fuck

You.

Home.

And you

And etc.

trouble