The Faceless
I had to leave. The atmosphere at home was radioactive. I could feel my flesh melt, and my hair fall out. I left at night with no money. I had the clothes on my skin, a raincoat, a lighter, a solitary cigarette, and for some reason, a note pad. My father told me to write it down, get it out of my head. Write it down. Write what down? Write the babble, the paranoia, the fear, the hatred of the capitalist system, the pain of falling in love with people who needed more than a sense of humor to form a relationship, write it down, and then forget about it. It didn’t work and yet I kept the notepad, empty and pure of thought. Mother was a good woman. I could not be her son. I could not live under the same roof. I didn’t even know why I wanted to leave. I just felt a sense of doom whenever I thought about growing old in the family home alone. Time was a robed hunter. Time would find me and turn me into dust. I wander