by Ross Robbins
Behind headphones I am no one. On A-Wing I have my own room. I masturbate joylessly. I cannot cum because Prozac. I could snap like an apple or a cockroach. There are gaps like slats of a crate in me. That is where the doubt gets in. I am where the why and the dammit. I picture every needle I ever used uncapped and poured over me. “Why?” I scream but I know full well why.