Somewhere.

Sitting under the shower with a blade in his hand, the car turns right, ubiquitous familiar orange lights, blade in his hand and he was alone. Slummy apartments with laundry hanging out of the windows, cheap clothes, people and people and people, shoved tightly together in small boxes upon boxes upon boxes, with little holes for air and sunlight, and they see outside through laundry. He was under the shower with a blade in his hand, sleeve rolled up. He was walking back through the fog now, and suddenly he was back. Smoking in the car, night and orange lights around him, staring at endless rows of packed apartments, trying to make small talk, he was really here. The stars are always there when you look up, unless there aren’t any stars, like there weren’t any that day, or were there? It was cloud or just fog? Chances of rain? Coming back alone in cold, shivering hands rubbed together, trembling hands lit cigarettes, he was back there. Walking back. He was under that shower with a blade in his hand, not running away from pain but embracing it. The stars. The car turns left and right, somehow the slums disappear, but only the road is visible under the orange light, going on and on. Under the shower and he counted, one two three four five six seven eight nine ten. It feels light after pain.

~ by wqah on April 5, 2008.