And the Night of the Stampede

20,000 kisses. One for the boys who never looked out for me, but promised and then broke their promises, rocking back and forth to the music, rocking back and forth in the pale blueness of the concert lights. I wanted, for a moment, to let the crowd take me, to trample me into pulpy, squirming bits of light pink and beige, to rip the skin from my cheeks and expose it, beet-red, to the alcohol-scented crowd, the weed smell like burning shit in the backdrop, and the drunk girls smothering kisses unto their boyfriends’ faces, gnawing the rubbery ear. And in the end we are all alone. We are all simply alone, however hard we try to deny this truth, with text messaging and facebook and phone calls that last an hour only because we talk about everything we did that day, from washing the dishes to brushing our teeth to shitting in the toilet. I floated in the pale blueness, the lights bright and blinding, the lyrics stabbed to death with curse words, three-edged curse words, sharp and hurting against my tender flesh, and I miss those days, of flawless pink cheeks and a pure, pure heart, a pure heart like almonds whose meat is smooth and white.