Scratch

This is my life now.

Scratch

on the record. My mind skips with each yellow light. Backwards toward some shit job I held before. Forward to the shit job tomorrow. The scratch in my minds record. The same decisions, the same results. The needle of my life goes over it again and again.

Scratch

paper. The faint and cryptic message that someone needed to communicate. Mainly to themselves. The brief, loopy, illegible scratch paper. The record of human interaction which cannot and will not reveal itself.

Scratch

the walls. Go up and down and around them. It's too cold. Claw at the wall. Write on the walls. Do anything to expand these walls. If I stay hereany longer I'm going to start to

scratch

my arms until they bleed. So I know I'm here. So I'm more than a scribble or a wall. Claw at myself, abuse myself until there is nothing left to

scratch.