she taught me how to pickpocket memories from business men's suit jackets, how to put them on and wear them as my own. i try on a memory then, of a fight outside a school, blood on my knuckles, blood from my nose. i don't like these memories, but still, i steal.

there are some things i wish i had the pleasure of never knowing.

she told me that there was no river in los angeles and i told her that she wasn't a saint, and yes there was a river. i dragged my finger along the map and showed her the mouth of the dragon, and where they paved over the scales, and where she bleeds into the pacific ocean. the pain of the earth as she is cut off from the water.

i told her that i didn't need her, that i had moved beyond her. am i lonely? am i drowning? am i singing? am i the dragon?

i consider the thought that my words might be fire and i taste them as they fall. i can see that, i can. but am i the dragon?

i told her that california was all milk and honey, promised land moses style, dripping in stardust. sunshine incarnate.

all gold, all money, forever dying slow.

the dragon used to roar, until they used her fire to water cookie-cutter lawns, the dragon used to roar, but now she is still.