aching bones,
arteries filled with plasm leftover from the last guy,
or girl, i don’t suppose that matter all that much,
but then again,
i’m not a doctor,
and this isn’t medical advice
elliott smith plays in the background,
and all my feelings of puberty and insecurity
come rushing from some forgotten, hidden, secret place i hoped would never resurface again,
but here we are, again,
shoplifting cheap cuts of steak and lipstick
to make it seem like we have a plan
i hope to one day forget,
but what i hope to forget,
well,
that i’m just not sure of yet,
but when i figure it out,
and i’m certain that day will come,
then i’ll be free of the burden of memory,
i sure hope it’s enlightening
Fred Aiken Writing 