She said that this city is killing me.
And, she is probably right.
I feel the bite of that malignancy every fucking time the boulevard coughs and sputters. Or when I have to pivot myself to the floor to dodge the popping clack of turf wars erupting outside the second story of my window.
I never wanted to fucking be in Michigan— shamrocked things were always much more my style. Because I was born with an insatiable hunger for something green. And the broken browns of dead Midwestern corn are at best a cruel joke.
But here I am.
Suffering through the suffocation of another Ingham County overnight. Just rotting away in the inconsistent squeeze of a misunderstood Mitten’s grip. And expiring slow in the farcical land where Q.D. Donut Munchers set a pace I just can’t seem to comprehend.
How the fuck did it even happen?
Oh, yeah.
There were whispers of love. Ones neatly aligning to marks left on alabaster thighs. That freckled skin that ached for possession of my pressing fingerprints. A longing I couldn’t help but to fulfill.
So I jumped. Off that cliff. And then, into that bed. Well, to be fair, it was initially an air mattress. Because we couldn’t then afford more durable bedding. And hilariously, it often popped before I did. Collapsing us down in fits of decompressing giggles.
That was after I had burned down what little I had in Wayne’s city. Making a tangible sacrifice on the altar of what might have been. Just to prove that I was serious for once. Because sometimes, the forest actually benefits from charred refreshment. And I wanted to invest myself in the conflagration of that reinvigoration.
But the voice that once whispered those affections also believed in a god I could never bring myself to trust. Because I trusted in bottles that were difficult for others to believe. And it was just a little too late when I learned that poison isn’t fermented for just everyone.
I guess we both had our own sins.
It was a constant battle. At least until it wasn’t anymore. Because when fairytale promises of the eternal collide with the voracity of more undomesticated natures, there can be only tragedy. Usually set against the backing soundtrack of a cold Michigan rain.
I always felt that when you find yourself wanting something just a little too badly, that obsession makes it just a little too easy to fuck it all up. Which was exactly why I always cautioned against placing foxes on unsustainable shelves. Heights make them nervous. And they don’t often thrive when held in such high regard captivity.
But on that metaphorical shelf I went. On quite a few, actually. Each one neatly labeled in flowing script for easier pigeonholing. Lover. Provider. Step-in Daddy. Fixer-Upper. Typewriter Rebel.
Then came that inevitable shove. Out of that address; right the fuck away from that treasured meadow.
So I fell back into the grinding ticks of purgatorial 517 time. Condemned to the vertigo of spinning wheels. And the spooling of engines. Constantly choking on jet blast. Drinking my unbalanced dinners. Fleshing out an emerging skeleton with only the blushing fibers of my scandals. Because they are the only things that seem to stick when the big lake winds blow.
And that’s the funniest part of this whole twisted, Mitten-sized rom-com misconception—the staggering amount of sin rapidly gaining ground.
Untethered, I am free to roam. All across the villainy of a dirty cityscape. Exploring new vices, while eviscerating expired virtues. Sowing destruction with wordy temper tantrums. Burning bridges with every fleshy, overnight thrust. Picking at old wounds every time my mispronounced name gets inserted in a dying newspaper’s printed story. Or new art gets crucified against an Old Town art gallery wall.
Because now, I go where I want. Smoke what I want; fuck what I want. Drink what I want; live how I want.
But the underlying irony remains clear. Even through catastrophically bloodshot eyes. What I most want is to not want any of those things at all.
I just haven’t figured out how to make that happen yet.
Bottom shelf, here I come…
