2001-11-27 || 9:58 p.m.

|| from what's inside the haunted hall closet ||

i have been wearing the parka a lot at night because it has gotten very cold. the parka is filthy. our mothers would be horrified that such things hang on our bodies, fill up the intimate spaces surrounding us. the parka smells like cats and heavy rain and breath. the orange lining is sagging from the weight of black clouds, dirt from midnight scooter riding and walking the circumference of san francisco and passing out on the lawns in front of barns in petaluma. i was never at the petaluma parties. the drinking whiskey straight from the bottle with punk rock girls illegal to kiss on kitchen floors, the photographs taken of you and your friends posing with a gun, the ghosts hanging on the stairs that you brushed away from your ears, mistaken for cobwebs and victorian drafts. the tight pants and dyed hair that got in your eyes. sarcasm flashing like fangs to hide the fear of sitting on a girl's bed. holding up quilts to remember their smell. i suspect i would dream about it if i wore this coat to sleep. i would wake up to find your fingerprints staining my cheek like old tobacco and liver damage.

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