My tears, I try to keep them private. I know their poison tentacles. If tears come, the bathroom stall accommodates the drops staining cloth, the sink soothes the red splotches.
When the top of my head ruptures after a gun smack, my tear ducts clog. Blood streams down past my shoulders, on some $10 polyester orange and white stripe polyester sleeveless shirt.
I need them tomorrow, in a bathroom, to remind me that going to the police office days later would yield faulty recall, relational remembering, a wound in my head.
I refused the ambulance. Where is the $500? Risk management isn’t going to pay my bill.
**
I saw the face for three seconds, and then buried my face in the uneven cement. It was me, and two others. Drunk, kinda of drunk and sober enough to drive.
We walk to a car, a block too far. Do people hop out from an ally behind some bushes and smack people.
Right now, they do.
**
To the reporter who shows up on my second floor apartment at the bottom of a hill, no gate, no elevator, laundry across the street. Her face, full of make-up, asks me if she can record a statement.
I ask her to leave.
**
I don’t know how to shoot a gun. I didn’t want anyone else to get smacked with a gun.
I have a headache. Again.
What if my skull caved in, and brain matter splattered on the ground?
Connective Cube 
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