You’re sitting in your stucco white walled office, paper stacks so high you won’t even be able to see your boss yelling at you to finish it all. A drive home in your beige, slightly sputtering, it’s only a little rust, sedan leads you past the spot. Oh the spot. The spot that makes your teeth grind nails on a chalkboard. The spot that has your heart hammering adrenaline through you like a rabbit on the run. “Where is the fog now? Let me forget. A trigger the bullet to your brain that reminds you of it, the bullet won’t be the one to kill you though, leave that to the bleeding wound. The rickety red wooden bridge burned bright into your brain, the way she turned to smile at your methodical approach, her excitement like the first snow of winter while in your presence. But you did it. You swung the double-edged sword in circles, leaving a bloody mess on both blades. Maybe that’s why you’re clenching a fistful of old movie tickets looking through those pictures. It’s why your hearts sinks and you always skip over that song when it comes up. Maybe that’s why no one seems to call anymore. But in the cold December nights when you’re curled up in a bed too big no matter the size, you can’t stop hearing those words pounding holes into your skull. “I think we should talk.”
Broken bone bullet holes fill with a fluid of angry resent and loneliness, every frustrated head swing sloshing it into a vicious viscous solution. It wants to break out and you can’t fight it anymore. Its salty trails stuff the nose and redden the eyes. It burns the skin and soaks the sheets, a potent internal anesthetic. Now’s not the time to go under. The frosty stoplight sensing its time to change lets you pass, the rickety red bridge shrinking in the mirror.