I swear I was born right in the doorway
i bought a friend. his name is shubert. he's a hermit crab. i gave him a bath today.
so the last week has been vacation, only not. because vacation would be getting away from all the things that stress me out, not spending a week alone and cooped up in a beach house with my family and the shittiest assortment of food ever. and this is my life, one coffee at a time.
dry heaving in the mirror thinking maybe i should do this more often.
hiding in the one spot in new jersey that i'm sure no one has ever been. and this is my life, one book at a time.
sitting in the top gondola of the ferris wheel, alone, watching gellatin kamikaze troops liquify into the ground below. watching the days liqufy by through the semi transparent off-white pages of a paperback. the kind of cheaply printed version that rubs ink off on your thumbs, and you're erasing the writing by reading it. you're killing the writing that entertains you. your killing your provider and you're killing yourself.
this isn't home anymore. this isn't my sanctuary. the sunday church doorstep housing cigarette butts like prayers said and crushed out. and this is my life one cigarette at a time.
and so this is vacation, only not.
and it turns twelve and something inside of me changes and something in my head clicks like the door clicks open. and i open the door and run. and when it's that late and you're running though sheets of beachy rain toward that black hole that the ocean is at night, well you don't need a reason to scream. you don't need a reason to run along the emptied soaked board walk, watching stores pass like memories or mile markers. this is the last time i'll see ocean city this way. this is the last time i'll call it home. this is the last beach tag i'll pin to my backpack and the last gulp of saltwater air i'll breathe in.
and soon my life will pass, one credit hour at a time. i'll pay twohundreddollars for ever hour of life given to me by the school of the art institute of chicago.
and so this is my life.
i'd love for things to stop moving so quickly for a day. in a month i'll be gone and i feel like i may not even see some of my friends before i'm gone. is this really how highschool ends? is this what goodbye will be? i just want to stop and relax and enjoy this. i've been saying for so long how much i want to leave langhorne but i've never really thought of what that means. it means leaving bensalem leaving the sev leaving the mall, the people, the playgrounds, the same trees i've walked by hundreds of times.
and for some reason i remember walking to the sev when i was in elementary school and looking up at that sobbing tree above me. i remember when that tree engulfed me. walking home with laura and kicking the wood fence. and my first cigarette, in fourth grade in the woods. back when i used to ride my bike to the sev every day. back when i had a bike.
my mother asked me what we should do with my bike when i go off to college. i told her that it's been years since i've had a bike. anymore it's been years since i've had a lot of things. butterbeer, a father, a skateboard, a home.
so tereza's out of jail i think. i wonder how the house is doing. i wonder how i am doing.
so the last week has been vacation, only not. because vacation would be getting away from all the things that stress me out, not spending a week alone and cooped up in a beach house with my family and the shittiest assortment of food ever. and this is my life, one coffee at a time.
dry heaving in the mirror thinking maybe i should do this more often.
hiding in the one spot in new jersey that i'm sure no one has ever been. and this is my life, one book at a time.
sitting in the top gondola of the ferris wheel, alone, watching gellatin kamikaze troops liquify into the ground below. watching the days liqufy by through the semi transparent off-white pages of a paperback. the kind of cheaply printed version that rubs ink off on your thumbs, and you're erasing the writing by reading it. you're killing the writing that entertains you. your killing your provider and you're killing yourself.
this isn't home anymore. this isn't my sanctuary. the sunday church doorstep housing cigarette butts like prayers said and crushed out. and this is my life one cigarette at a time.
and so this is vacation, only not.
and it turns twelve and something inside of me changes and something in my head clicks like the door clicks open. and i open the door and run. and when it's that late and you're running though sheets of beachy rain toward that black hole that the ocean is at night, well you don't need a reason to scream. you don't need a reason to run along the emptied soaked board walk, watching stores pass like memories or mile markers. this is the last time i'll see ocean city this way. this is the last time i'll call it home. this is the last beach tag i'll pin to my backpack and the last gulp of saltwater air i'll breathe in.
and soon my life will pass, one credit hour at a time. i'll pay twohundreddollars for ever hour of life given to me by the school of the art institute of chicago.
and so this is my life.
i'd love for things to stop moving so quickly for a day. in a month i'll be gone and i feel like i may not even see some of my friends before i'm gone. is this really how highschool ends? is this what goodbye will be? i just want to stop and relax and enjoy this. i've been saying for so long how much i want to leave langhorne but i've never really thought of what that means. it means leaving bensalem leaving the sev leaving the mall, the people, the playgrounds, the same trees i've walked by hundreds of times.
and for some reason i remember walking to the sev when i was in elementary school and looking up at that sobbing tree above me. i remember when that tree engulfed me. walking home with laura and kicking the wood fence. and my first cigarette, in fourth grade in the woods. back when i used to ride my bike to the sev every day. back when i had a bike.
my mother asked me what we should do with my bike when i go off to college. i told her that it's been years since i've had a bike. anymore it's been years since i've had a lot of things. butterbeer, a father, a skateboard, a home.
so tereza's out of jail i think. i wonder how the house is doing. i wonder how i am doing.