a paragraph from 'ok, ghost', some other things

They leave and the nurse gives me my clothes and throws a vomit-stained gown into a biohazard bag and I cannot help my grin. There’s a giant mirror and I convince myself the cop is watching me. Staring at the mirror intently, like a small bird, I rotate my head from side to side then go out of the room. I am missing a sock. In the pocket of these three-weeks-unwashed jeans that hang from my hips there are four wrinkled bills and with them I get a styrofoam cup filled with blackish, burnt water. There is a fake leather chair and I sit in for 7-8 minutes and look up when the cop person makes sound walking down the hall. He looks at me. His name tag says: Lt. Kendall Martinez. I look at his eyes and they are a boring color. This man has nothing to offer.


today I got a bad grade on a 10 page film analysis in a film class. I got a 1.5/5 and kind of feel like dropping out of college and possibly working in a gas station for maybe a few months and then possibly moving somewhere like Canada.

I listened to Led Zeppelin earlier for a long time and thought of my childhood and then listened to Tracy Chapman and thought of my father telling me about the world when my hair was so long that it repeatedly whipped the small of my back when I ran on the soccer field.

I will not drop out of college for another year at least.

I am making a playlist about my ex-girlfriend because I made contact with her when I was on drugs and feeling lonely and now she is something that again drifts into my head.

All of the songs are acoustic.

I feel like each emotion I am feeling is pulling my heart to a different area of my body and that my heart has the consistency of gum that has been chewed for thirty minutes and will snap soon.
But my heart will not snap.

I feel apologetic for using the internet to talk about myself in a format that is not a poem. Why do I feel that way. The internet is a black hole we are all screaming our names and feelings into and we cannot even hold anyone's hand while our fingers type.

Dale wanted to hold me today and I felt a familiar feeling of shame about my sexuality.