Blue Jeans

Blue Jeans burns in the space between my iphone and my ears, Lana’s voice igniting the acid that came up through my gut to my brain and that now drips out of my eyes. Good. I needed this. I needed to purge myself of the sinful memory of your affection. I could’ve taken a run; I know a field nearby. But instead my heart will race a marathon right from my bed. Uncomfortably comfortable, I drench myself once again in words and words and words…the only entity that makes this pain worth experiencing. I’m closing a chapter of my heart, a heart I wasn’t even aware had re-opened. And you…what are you? I never knew. We never know. We are always travellers inter-railing across the lives of people we wish we could understand and claim as our own. But we will never understand nor own anyone. So I pick up my rucksack filled with an extra set of french knickers, a can of body spray and a toothbrush, and I tell you goodbye. Goodbye with a steely back, but an open wound for a chest. That’s why I don’t turn around fully to look at you, in case you learn how deeply I’ve begun to lay down visions and desires like roots in this foreign land. But I chop at them with my chipped nails, extricating myself from the groundwork my emotions have made. I watch my roots wilt on the soil, like children begging their emotionally unengaged mother to stay. They’re weeping. But so am I. I’m weeping and wailing because it took but days to fall, and I survey the monstrous climb ahead and I long to stay. But your land is no good for me. It’s the rationale that the mind understands, but that the heart never will. Help me. Help me to turn every curve and edge of myself away from you. But the songs. John Legend. How will he let me forget?

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