how to write this. the writing of. it’s old. said it too often. lies. the liar in me. lost. he had short nails, bitten to the quick from a nervous tension whenever he had to move from place to place. it was always the same. some apartment in some building where all the floors were tied into the same circuit. and then eviction. by his hand or the owner’s or even the city. he wore long sleeve shirts to hide the long elegant lightening bolts shattering the inside of both his wrists. not that he was ashamed, only embarrassed by the not so elegant stare, the gawking and lingering unspoken question: how could he, how could he even consider? it was never a consideration, it was an impulse, sudden and angry and necessary. he’s glad to live to tell the tale, but no one ever courages up the question. these things. late into the night. lost. i’d talk to him if only his ghost would appear.