I was talking to Katie last Sunday
and about how I had always thought that those stories were "yours."
"but they're not hers," she said. she pointed a finger at me.
and so it begins.
years later, I find my toes in so many familiar waters
hearing voices and seeing signs ahead of me
that I thought had been relegated
to saved voicemails and rearview mirrors
but some things deserve chances.
and sometimes you have to try again
and I'm so far past trying again with you.
so I'll keep the stories.
those are mine.
you. can't. have them.
they're what I thought I saw
and were so far removed from reality
that they could've been scripted
(probably by a late-90s era Woody Allen
or maybe Neil LaBute)
I've always liked hypotheticals
because they can be so close to reality
and the second a story gets told
it becomes something else
some people make them memories
but I'd rather have them be goals.
and you moved the post so damn often
that the only way for me to win
is to just stop playing.
there are so many other places I should be
so instead of writing stories about you
instead of inverting how small you made me feel
I'm gonna write about the things that are actually good
and I'm gonna get better.
I'm not long for this place
(this town, I mean)
and I need to be at my absolute best
so that I can get what I want
because I'm not going to settle anymore.
I'm not one for floral metaphors
there's something in me that's blossoming
all of your shit was really just fertilizer in disguise.