It Doesn’t Have To Be Beautiful

All the boys I ever loved liked me better with long hair because it was the easiest part of me to own. So I grew it out in hopes that it would strangle me eventually. K always said that September begins with a secret death wish, but that was only half true. Dying is surprisingly easy and secrets are hard to keep. 

That’s why when I found myself lying compulsively again last week, I cobbled together whatever pieces of me were still salvageable and hopped on the first train out of Chicago. I stop charging my phone after the fifteenth missed call and spend an hour listening to the voicemails you left in my mailbox on repeat, wondering why I was always the first one to say “I love you”. Like the theory of galaxies, everything comes together, everything breaks apart. At the end of the day, what are we really? I’m sitting alone in front of my seedy motel waiting for the waxing moon to emerge and end up falling asleep before the sky fades into the dusky purple horizon. You were right, the stars do look brighter in the city.