exit here. a novel by Jason Myers

"I stalk around my room. I take out this notebook and start writing things down.

Things like:

When I see her, I see need,

I see a black gift wrapped in pink paper,

I see a skeleton draped in red velvet,

I see a frown hiding in a smile,

I see filth and dirt, covered by a rose garden

I crib:

What the fuck is love anyway?

Is it a phone call the next morning?

Is it picking up a hundred-dollar-meal tab?

Is it flowers on the fifth date?

Or is it sleeping on the wet spot?

With my notebook in my lap, my left hand draped against the side of my face, I slam:

You are wrong to think I have no feelings,

You are wrong to think I would not care,

You are not sorry so don't tell me that you are,

You are nothing to me, just some distant black star

I scribble:

July eighteenth.

Three forty-five in the afternoon.

A Team Sleep CD spinning around the player.

I have no one else but myself to blame.

This is all my fault.

It hurts.

It will always hurts.

I will never forget.

I could try, and I will try, but I will never forget.

It will burn in my memory forever.

Just like everything else.

I will not be able to put this away."