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The last time I shouted at my parents, they made me leave. Mom cried. Dad pushed me out the door. Their dog growled at me.

The last time I visited the coffee shop it was a gas station. I was twenty. My friend, alive. Days young, air sweet like candy.

The last time the wind blew I hopped on a leaf and soared. Carefree, eyes closed, unconcerned where I'd land, what new home was mine.

The last time someone pointed a gun at me I laughed. Do us all a favor, jackass, and fire. Those days I was explosives, cyanide.

The last time I drank too much the following words applied: vodka, prank, panties, vomit, Doberman, theft, pizza, tears, grammar, nudity, supine, firecrackers, sprint, warthog.

The last time, you said, an unfinished thought. Brain misfire, it happens. You stood, quizzical, eyes searching for the rest. In the kitchen, popcorn burned.

The last time I pointed a gun at someone it was empty. Old girlfriend. We were stoned. To her, pointing meant shooting. We both cried.

The last time I jumped off a building I bounced. Sixteen stories. People ask, why. I say, I knew I'd bounce. Hopeless liar. Elastic posterior.

The last time I talked to my dead friend it snowed. We drank wine, watched stupid movies, made snowballs. Let's get together soon. We parted.

The last time. Here's where I put my foot down. That's it. I've become my parents. No more. I'll remind you of past trespasses. Explode.


words: Christian Bell, Maryland (I'm Not Emilio Estevez)
this story was first published in 52/250
image: 'Perception' - Michael Brandonisio, NYC (at Counterexample)


another reminder of past trespasses: A Glimpse of Color (#25)


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BluePrintReview - issue 26 - identity