he lives deep in my mind,

sometimes singing a tune

sometimes whispering his

little thoughts sometimes

laughing softly sometimes

ignoring me completely and

sometimes just smiling to


some days I do not

mind his company, I

let him walk amongst my

desires and fears and annoyances

and hopes and aspirations and

jokes and tears and laughs

as though he were

merely a passerby on a

bustling manhattan avenue

but lately I scorn his

presence as he makes

keen observations

over his shoulder about

the things I see the things

I feel the things I think the

things I do not want anyone

not even myself to notice

“you love him” he whispers;

“but – you’re not what he

wants, are you?” “she’s not

the nicest but she has more

friends than you” “stand

tall” “say something” “coward”

“fight” “why hasn’t he called

you? If you are meant to be?”

“they all left you”

he shuts up when I

smoke my Mary and

when I lie back with

frank sinatra or drake

he awakens

when I drink my vodka

and when I sleep, he

disappears as I run,

pound the gravel, run

he awakens as I eat quietly

listening to the voices

around me

I try to drown him;

too much of my precious

liquor and I have lost him

and myself, there we are,

there we are on the ground,

too much of

my sacred fix, I need a fix

and I’m going down –

and I’m flying

too high for him to reach me

but the next morning he is there –

he is always fucking there –

sitting in his chair –

smirking and caressing a

knife that shall pierce my

heart until

his comments become

shouts his comments

become the only thing i

hear his comments




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