This time

All I have are secondhand friendships with diluted fucking memories of events that haven't happened yet. There is invitation and rejection; inhalation and smoke. I watch flipbook representations of how I used to be, mixed with spite and anger and connections gone wrong. This is no response, but it is an expression. I hide behind doors, long silences barricaded behind locked handles and ignorance. This is it. This is who I claim to be and I can't wait to see how the rest of my life doesn't turn out. I hear voices and I know I have to run. There is nothing to keep me except a paperback copy of On the Road. Maybe I'll end up running this time.