Thirst.

I saw the flint and steel in your eyes first
And it started this
tiny, smoldering fire
In the back of my throat.
And I have carried you there,
Like a thirst.

The things we hide I

I used to write exclusively in spiral notebooks.
Skinny, portable and most importantly, easily edited by a page removed.

I did this so at a moments notice, I could edit my own story.

This never happened. This day. This moment, that girls smile. Gone, vanished. I lived like this, long after mother and I shared the same roof.

I lived, like an alley cat. My backpack snugly against my shoulder. Everything needed for survival in tow.
Clothes,
meds,
pens,
notebooks,
underwear,
toothbrush.
A map,
Some cliff bars.
Altered bus tickets.


I lived like this for years.
And once I had a sturdy roof, and a sometimes steady girlfriend,
my heart would still not sit down.
Always mirroring the exits,
It preferred the arm of the sofa,
thanks.
My journals laid open all over that first house
But it was the bottles I hid in the kitchen
behind the flour.
The flask in the stack of towels.