Harebrained.

There is a man who lives down by the docks and cooks meth in his basement every Thursday. Sometimes he soaks in a tub of kerosene while smoking menthol cigarettes, like looking death in the face, that’s what he tells me. He is a realist and sort of a hermit, the whole town thinks that he is crazy.

He has lived a tragic life and has dark hair matched with pretty, pretty eyes. I am infatuated with him and his ideas about what life is all about.

No, wait. Let me rephrase that: There is a man who lives down by the docks and is asking for a death wish. The whole town thinks that he is crazy, but I think that he’s just a little odd. He talks about death and the stars and hums Fly Me to the Moon when he mixes together lye with starting fluid, his voice sometimes scratchy.

I know that he used to live in alleyways and has a scar running vertical up his ribcage from when he was ten. “Boogeyman was after me, so I climbed out the window to get away,” is always his story, I never question it because I most likely don’t want to know.

He has dark hair, pretty, pretty eyes and skin that glows smooth when the sun is dancing low along the water. I am in love with him and what his fingers do to me after dark.