I’m not supposed to think about this anymore.
And mostly I don’t.
But when I do
hot wax between my fingers
the sour tang of Johnny Walker Red and Coke
the feeling that I had no choice
blood on my hands and piss in the bucket.
And the weight
the weight of it.
Left to carry for the rest of my life.
I’ve been toying with the idea of working with old photos in some sort of way (here, in a separate online space, or perhaps in a physical way), another outlet for processing what can’t be completely processed and connecting to parts of me that are sometimes shut off. Watch this space—maybe—for more.