Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Regrettably

This summer,

I might go where the sunshine lives.

Palm trees,

no memories,

no ties,

no heartbreak to run away from.

I thought I might try drugs once,

but they tore up everyone I knew,

and you know I’m not ready to be an obituary,

despite the days where I’m melancholy.

I want to survive but I don’t know how,

because survival means happiness to me,

and I’ve lost sight of what happiness means,

because I always attach it to some bastard who doesn’t know what to do with it,

because I am predictably codependent.

(All writers secretly are.)

I think I need a holiday,

but I’ve developed a fear of flying,

not in the sense that I’m scared of dying,

but just in the sense that I’m scared it will be a waste of time,

to wander halfway across the world,

only to feel exactly as I do now,

somewhere expensive.

Now,

you know me,

I settle down sometimes,

just to be free,

because I don’t know how to exist,

without contradicting myself.

I start to wonder,

sometimes,

when the night has fallen,

and I have fallen into my bed,

feeling like a failure,

if the bad weather that follows me,

comes from me.

Maybe if I move,

I could escape,

or I could just create a new storm capital,

inflicting my insatiable inconsolableness on everybody else.

Socialism for sadness!

Every comrade gets a slice!

I go to the bar,

to try and transform myself

from spinster to a wife,

but I go home alone,

cursing myself for being so afraid of confronting someone and saying

“Yes, you may buy me a drink, if you’re not a sociopath.”

because,

Oh God,

what if they ARE a sociopath,

that’s exactly the kind of thing a sociopath would lie about,

(we’ve been down THAT road many a time)

and I’m just so ready to settle down that I’ll settle for anything?

I’m sure you can see,

that I need a day off,

from my own neurotic nonsense,

but when it rests inside me,

there’s nowhere else to go,

regrettably.

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