Of course, cry. Thats your answer to everything.

We’d go back to the spot of course, never together though.  Why are we like that?  I think she is buying cigarettes, that’s the look I get, like she’s hiding that thing, that act, the benefit, the release, she’s not even twelve.  The next day I don’t hold back, I go there, I go straight there, I look for the blood, for whatever might still be there.  I rule out a hemorrhaged black ellipse as gum.  There are oil dribbles from a car but all I can imagine, all I want to see is a young boy bent over the ruin of his face, shocked at the dark stuff coming from him, going to the ground where it will stay.  It’s hard to find, hard to look for too.  I have never stayed to see things get this way, watch the red go dead, watch the blue eyes like alien crystals gray black.  It feels like a revenge fuck, all my looking around.

She’s drawing.  Everything gets the X eyes.  Everything becomes a passive assertion, a sulk.

“I didn’t do anything” I say.

“I know” she says.

It all turns into the spot, like calling a weekend “Vegas”.  I can go to a speed bump in the parking lot of the King Super where I ate shit on my Huffy when I was 15.  I swear I can still find pieces of gravel with me on it.  Or the rod on that weird looking fence in the alley of my far childhood, still there, I can walk you there right now and push you into it.  I stand around now looking for the spot, for anything, a smell, anything but it has generalized into something easier to point towards than touch.

“Do you think he is in heaven?”

I don’t.  I tell her so.  I scream it.


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