Your alcoholic father died when the vessels in his throat, they capsized, and drowned him in blood: his own. And so your despondent mother tried to fill in all the gaping holes in her life with escalating addictions, alone. You left home when you turned 16 with some people you met and admired, because they denied the vices that plagued your home. But their aggressive stance began to seem an abusive form unto itself, so you took flight. You hitchhiked out of the city alone. You tell me what you've seen. You imply the in-betweens, and leave searing red ellipses at the end. You think your friends won't understand. Yeah, they just won't understand. They can think they'll understand, but they won't. They won't. One day you'll wake as dusk creeps in, and strip off all your filthy clothes, stained with wine, and take them to a Laundromat far from home. You'll watch rows of gleaming machines spin, but cycles of another sort won't touch your mind. They're communicated through blood: your own. You tell me what you've seen. You imply the in-betweens, and leave searing red ellipses at the end.You think your friends won't understand. Yeah, they just won't understand. And if you think that, well, then, yeah. We won't. We won't.