by Sean Patrick Mulroy
The tape is jubilant at first, as the beginning of the night replays
Laura, who insisted that her name was Desdemona
and I, bite into crackers, cackling at the sound of them,
between our teeth.
After we use up the glitter glue,
after we eat all the pizza and the barbecue potato chips—
after I break out the glow sticks,and we talk about our clothes
and then about our dreams,
recorded history becomes another ball of yarn for our dumb drug-disoriented minds
to tangle themselves in—
and I remember it. Being high. Excited about everything. Laughing like our lungs
were helium balloons. At some point, 18 year-old me says, thanks for listening,
me-in-the-future, I love you!
and I want to die, a little.
Who, cloaked up as I was, in hallucinations of the future,
bright shoed, and impermeable, could concieve
of coming down, and landing as I did, like this? Teenage Sean is mocking me.
I want to slap him.
You don’t love me, you little shit. You never did. That’s why I’m here.
Sitting at this desk crying while you bring up inside jokes from 13 years ago,
as if I will remember them.
Later Desdemona falls asleep, and I’m whispering into the microphone,
All my friends seem like a memory, I miss my room at home.
I’m afraid to sleep here.
My roommates think I’m crazy.
My webpage is so awesome.