Published on July 21, 2017 by Paul Ciano
A year ago, you asked me to help you, and God knows I’ve tried. But I can’t help you, Logan, not really, if you’re not going to talk to me. I hear you at night, you’re not sleeping. You don’t want to talk about that. Or the booze you’re drinking. Or the puss you’re wiping away from your knuckles. Or the blood I wash from your clothes. Or the fresh wounds in your chest, the ones that aren’t healing.