memorizing stretched out lines
imprinting soft glows
with bioluminescence that creates a trail
to follow into infinite estrangements
leaking sky,
stripped out closets
left bare to suffer the abandonment
of storing nothing, being nothing,
because yard sales in the rain rust
everything we had into the ground
once i learn to be a decent human being,
then you’ll get it,
what, i don’t know,
because i guess at that point,
whatever sort of nebulous revenge i was planning
would be kinda silly,
and your verbal jab about me being a piece of shit
won’t be all that applicable,
and you probably already forgot you called me that
back when we were acne-hormonal meat puss
smoking cigarettes behind the school,
waiting for the coach’s whistle to indicate
that we all needed to go take a shower,
we smelled,
like teenagers and, as you aptly described,
pieces of shit
Fred Aiken Writing 