The summer's almost here and after summer comes fall then winter and so I have to figure out what I'm doing, if I'm staying here or going. Here they like my writing and they want to publish it and stop me after I read to tell me I'm good even when they're older and respected and who am I some kid almost just reading about sex and cigarettes. The lit scene here grows on me and poetry is actually respected here and people read novels, so maybe it is a good place for me to be.
But then I want to sell my books and my jewelry barely worn, meant for some other version of me, some other life I could have lived, that people expected me to live, but wasn't for me, and take my car and drive away, because here I am reminded of my loneliness by the people around me. Here I am so allergic to the air. Here I want always what I cannot have. Here I see faces that remind me.
It's always my dream to go out and travel. Wind up on the west coast where my heart tugs me. Will there I want what I cannot have? Will there they like my words?