This was the dance floor we met upon, skidding awkwardly across the floor in sock-feet. You were rolling around to the tune of some angsty emo band I'd never heard of. No, really it was a remix of my favourite Nine Inch Nails song, the one I'd been listening to since I was fifteen.
I was trying to abstract conceptual punk rock hip hop manifestos. I was trying to be a graffiti salesman. An icon of iconoclastic fury. Wordy, for the sake of phrases.
It's all just word-count to me. How many did you get, and far did you get to go with it? Does it have a satisfying end? Or are you going to be gnawing at that conclusion for the rest of your life?
This was a place for us to come and be alone. We met each other, awkwardly, and thought maybe we'd found somebody who could reflect that sensation of dancing by yourself in a crowd.
Was it worth it? Was the cost worth what I got out of it?
I got a scar that won't heal. A little cut in the roof of my mouth. I got a title for a larger work. I got something out of it. I grew up a little bit more, and I saw some things that I can't unsee in myself.
Fuck it. Somethings, it'd just be rude to say by proxy.
