I’ve made a mess of every love and like. A series of short stories—all because I can’t forget the little girl who couldn’t show her hurt. For years she stuffed it into bags, assorted smiles, forced and wan but full of dreams they’d someday become real as others’ frowns.
Crooked teeth and cobwebbed dreams. The darker places of my mind where I’ve wrapped my hopes in rusted wire. Now you rest remote, like purple veins that lack the oxygen of love—pushed further from the heart until you fall below my ankles, pressed into the earth to dry.
I’ve a bad, a bad bad habit for these boys that never leave. The flings that flung too far because I’m too afraid to let them let me go. So we swing through moments, almost sad, nearly happy, never fully feeling anything besides the feeling that we’re going nowhere.
Yet I eat you up, collecting charmers who can briefly make me smile or moan or something in between. Skipping milestones, shaking meaning, sifting feelings for the false stuff that can get us through another week pretending it’s not ending faster than it all began.