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.
