He said he hates this place. The house disgusts him. In the isle between his door and the fridge, a dog takes a shit. He stares back up at us blank. No one has ever told him not to. I sit at home and figure, Id type this on word where no one can see but she’s taken that from me too. I wonder if anyone gets how hard it is to keep flowing when you’ve got so much to keep you down.
I wish I could fly away on wings of kerosene and burn everything- his ugly old house. My tent out back. The back pack full of meth. All of it. Instead I’m just sitting there watching the animals shit everywhere while he says-
“See what I mean?”