etcetera, etcetera

tell me you’re as scared as i am. tell me you feel lost, no matter what’s unfolding before you. look into my eyes and describe what pulls you under when the waves are vicious. what fills your lungs and leaves you gasping for air? what drags you out to sea screaming, water gurgling in your desperate lungs? give me the blood soaked towels and those awful, yellowed sweatbands.  give me the flu and two hot baths in a single night. the pain of your youth circles the drain, so i wash it down with cold water. i want to drive at 3 o’clock in the morning when i have work in four hours. i want sobbing. drums. raw voices on the radio, and the kind of pain you can’t edit away. i want every word you have to give me, even when they don’t mean what you think they do. i'm already so good at reading between your lines. i used to hear about beautiful houses washed from sandy coastlines that were eroding long before they were built, and think their owners foolish for believing that beauty was as

a year in review from the journal archives: — “when you were in pre-k, nanny sent you off to school with brand new, bright pink boots and instructions to ‘kick that little shit, conrad, right in the shin’ with them if he were ever so bold as to bully me again.  from you, i learned to be the fire instead of just starting one.”