Is it the paper or the keyboard that is my friend?

I’ve had two too many libations. An incoherent fragment I’ll make.

Do you know how many times I’ve hit that foreboding backspace button?

I was in Cape, driving past those houses that hold every ounce of trauma and joy. On that dark old street I drove past a house—after we broke up, before I was over it all, even though I was sleeping with your cousin, when I seizured in front of all those “friends”—and thought, ‘Are the ghosts still there?’

Is beer can shrapnel still not stomped into the ground? Is the memory of you making my face burn and then my father burning it again, for your sake, not ingrained there? The baseboards tense in terror and the walls shutter at my name screamed and then the floor catches my fall, wraps me in harsh words and handshakes, till I—who I was then—start a new life. Then someone unknown starts theirs. But do they feel that presence?

How many times will I drive past this house… no matter how many times we lied, we cheated, we loved.

I still see the same fucking house. The same fucking people. The same fucking party. I same fucking “It’ll be okay; I’ll go talk to him.” The same fucking friends looking at you in the eye wanting to be your friend but knowing in a small town like this, ignorant friends are easy but ignorant friends with ignorant parents are slightly more difficult to come by. The same fucking place. The same fucking… that made me who I am.

I had wanted this to be short. Ole scrap paper, my confidant—a withered piece torn from an unused checkbook, left too long on a dusty computer desk where he has stalked me silently—how you inspire me.