Ch.1–Tracks

“You’re rolling it way too tight.”

“I’m sorry—Can I see your Ph.D in joint rolling? Your masters in bowl packing? Or your weed—Can I see your w—Oh, wait! That’s right, you don’t have any weed! This is MY weed? I’m the weed god, tonight. I’m the big kahuna t–”

I smile and shake my head in pleasant disbelief before reaching for the last Bud Light in our summer’s thirty. Languidly propping my rainbows against the cold metal of the Wellesley train tracks, I lean back and recline, allowing my small body to melt into the potpourri of pebbles and beer tabs that line the train.

I’m high. Like, I’m fucking blazed.

But this is youth isn’t it? Unadultered, unapologetic, pure concentrated youth? The kind that burns into your soul and etches itself right next to baby-hood?

The sort that trekks up your mothers leg at two in the morning like a colony of African black ants when your beds empty and she just found a strap on in your desk drawer?

It’s beautiful. It’s primal.

iIt’s pink, green, blue, and orange–It’s a Technicolor masterpiece.

Then someone flat lines and its black—black as night. And when you squeeze your eyes shut, when you press them together so hard all you see are stars and fireworks in a neon haze, it turns purple, which I guess is even blacker than night.

Sometime, probably in the violet stage when you’re creeping out of the morbid purple one, you sleep with your dealer, which is really neither here nor there. However, eventually, and somewhat understandbly, you chalk it up to what you know, or what you don’t know.

You find solitude in your own stupidity and selfishness.

You don’t believe in love.

And you get high, like I am now. Drunk, like I will be in twenty minutes.

You set off for college, like you’re leaving nothing behind, in desperate pursuit of the pinks, blues, and reds you know exist, cause you saw them, felt them seep into your pores, knowing that 2,000 miles away, festering under the California sun, is the only person you’ve ever loved, holding onto your secret for dear life like a daughter would her mother on the first horrifying day of preschool.

You can still hear her calling you, blurting out your name between choked sobs and tear induced hiccups.

“Spencer.”

The memory burns almost as much as the schnapps I used to chase it.

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It’d be awesome if you’d leave feedback telling me whether or not I should continue–strong points, weak points, ect. feedback really is key. if i keep going the updates will be A LOT longer. please, don’t be a ghost and let me know.