I told him that I was out of it because I had lost my woman. He sighed and shook his shoulders.

“Nothing hurts worse than a broken heart.”

I looked out the window. The buildings and desert and fences and lines blended together to make an ugly face, scowling at me. He reached his hand over.

“James.”

I told him my name and shook it. He nodded.

“I’m not gonna say anything to you about it, brother, because I know how it feels.”

“Thanks.”

He pulled out this yellow pack of cigarettes with a blue eagle on it and shook one loose. He held it between his teeth and shook one loose for me.

“Have a smoke. It’ll calm your nerves.”

“I’ll be alright,” I said.

“Don’t worry, man. It’s a natural cigarette,” he laughed, “but I know, it’s still sucking the corporate cock, regardless.”

He lit up and shot out a cloud against the windshield. It hit the glass and divided into two arms that reached out of the windows and vanished. He looked at his lighter and set in on the dashboard.

“Fuck it,” he said.

We drove through a lot of the night. Somewhere in Texas he pulled up to a drive-thru and ordered. He looked at me.

“You hungry?”

“No.”

He got the food. The smell sickened me. I hadn’t eaten in days. He was fumbling his burger, trying to shift.

“Son of a bitch. Hey, man. Do you have a license?”

“Yes.”

“Drive a stick?”

“I’ll drive.”

We parked and switched. On the freeway he ate and kicked his shoes off.

“Don’t fall asleep.”

“No chance.”

He leaned back in his seat.

“I know what you mean. Thinking about what she’s doing, about the fucker she’s with, wondering why, fishing for reasons. Your stomach’s all goofy, your mind’s racing, part of you has been torn out and frozen. Fuck! I’m so glad that’s behind me now.”

I nodded, “To make everything you just said worse, the day after it ended I saw her kissing the guy from her car.”

He closed his eyes and clenched his fists, “AAAUUUGH!”

“And the fucker had a ponytail.”

“AAAUUUGH!”

The road was dark, feeding the white lines into my forehead. He put his feet up on the dash and looked over.

“Hey, man. I got two words for you: fuck her.”

I didn’t say anything. He dug in the paper sack.

“Here. Have a fry.”

I took it and had a small bite. It screamed all the way down to my stomach. It bounced back up and almost came out. I fought it down. I chucked the rest of it on the freeway. We had just crossed into Oklahoma. James signed off.

I write on my arms because I like to feel the words sink into my skin

I chew on the inside of my cheeks in an attempt to taste the pain of words misspoken

I too often catch my reflection and fall apart at the sight of my imperfection

I grow cacti to prove to myself that not everything I touch dies, just the fragile ones

I have a tendency to push people away because I'm terrified that they will discover me and I won't be able to hide from myself anymore

I like to pretend my words were not written by me because I like to pretend I'm not nearly as broken as all this