Ben Bonkoske

I’d like to publicly apologize for a spider I killed tonight. Privately, I did a lot of other bad things today. I’m so shaken up about this homicide I don’t feel like writing. How do I live with myself? I want to be unloved. Die alone. A missing obituary in a town where nobody knew my name. Maybe I’m the one who hasn’t moved on. I look forward to quasi-communication with a skeleton. A new friend (a beautiful woman from Minnesota) told me that when we dream of those who have passed, they are “visiting” us. Let the ghosts go on haunting. There are so many rational things to worry about, but all I can think about is running into people who’ve left my life at a party. Unsure what to say, so we just ignore each other. They move on, and I just stay the same. I’d be happy to think I changed, but we all dream. A paranoid schizophrenic isn’t meant to be understood. That is why my best friend is a non-linear journal and a dope fiend. It would be nice to be remembered, but there are so many things I can’t forget. Music is a good equalizer. I’d hate to have my tastes. Hell, I can’t hide the tears any longer. Like an old game of hiding and seek, under a blanket with nothing on, when there was nothing to hide, you found me. The tears always came anyway. And I’d hitchhike across the country and leave behind all responsibility when everything left me behind time after time. I know, it isn’t easy to walk away.