The footsteps were real. Shadows. Presences. Body smells. A door opened somewhere close by. I felt air all over my body, all on my skin as if someone were blowing kisses. Then, as if all the breathable air inside was sucking out, a long human gasp came from somewhere behind me. Only a choke of horror remained. “Jesse!” I was too scared to look.

Lonny

Lonny

It wasn’t just me,” I told the police. Red leaves are tiny mouths falling through the sky. They dry on the ground and talk back in a scratchy, girlish voice. They say things like, “You ain’t never had a chance. You ain’t never had a chance.” And they dirty my sneaks saying, “My boy. My boy, Christ Jesus!” Shit. You have to step on them to shut them up. You got to keep on stepping sometimes until they come off the ground and come off your shoes with a sigh. Leaves leaving. Ain’t that a bitch? And then they brush back, leaving the chalk outline of a guy you want to fuck. But leaves leaving in November say, “No. No. No.” And you talk back to those lips crackling underfoot, saying, “Shit man. I make my own chances. I make them myself.” And they lay there scattered like blood in the street, shocked, brittle, open, and hard, like pulled teeth that won’t shut up. And I get to asking myself why Moms had to be there cackling at me like that. I told her once how things happened the way they did. I told everybody and signed my name in ink where they told me to sign. Even the doctor promised me clean sneaks.

Now the leaves talk very little, or I just don’t hear them as much as before. Soon they’ll all go away and I can walk on lighter feet. See some sky. Never hear them voices again. Never. I’ll shut them up like the guys tried to shut me up. They didn’t want me to say nothing. And even Metro didn’t know nothing until it was too late. I didn’t realize it either until the voices came back with bodies when they locked me up to wait for trial. The bodies and the voices attacked me this time, and I had no room to hide in or get away to. No fucking where to go.