I have held so many in my arms and thrown so many to a cold cold cement street. Sitting in a gutter holding my head, or now sitting behind a steering wheel the night before Easter in a black car in font of my parent�s house in jeans slightly too tight and irritating my left hip trying to rub off the tattoo I have there from when i was 17 I know something, besides the hip irritation- this isn�t the way I want to live my life. I think back and recall happier times- I haven�t forgotten the unhappier times- but I just reach and know with the car keys on my leg I know I am still somehow limiting myself- how? I have no idea- but I am still driving the back roads of Malden in a state that leaves the radio loud and the car full of gas and, for some reason, I don�t sing to the music. I stare at the shutters and in my window wondering if anyone else ever looks in my window with the little light on and cry with my forehead on the steering wheel and drugs are somewhere in my veins.

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