These are the final hours of my twenties. While they are singing their swan song, I have this to say. To my twenties: Dont let the door hit you on your way out. Or, if it does, take it as a token of my regard for the time weve so closely shared. I want back into you like a snake wants to crawl back inside its own discarded skin, like a loony wants back into a straight jacket. Weve learned much together, yes, and for that Im thankful... thankful for all the times Ive fallen off my bike, for all the hours Ive hovered around minimum wage, the thankful I feel for my loved and lost. Weve been painful together. Its an intimacy that improves with distance, a joke thats funnier as the claws retract— we cant help but laugh at Cruella Devil, probably because were afraid of how we really feel about her, of how we envy her. This is the death Ive anticipated, the bill of lading written into the corners of my eyes, where someday will rest pennies. Ive been watching you leave, and each step you take towards that door deepens the intensity, that rising panic of wanting to break into a run through the dark in your own living room at night, in your thirties, and you couldnt possibly— step. Step. Step. When you reach that door, Ill trust youve learned enough —from our late nights, groggy mornings, scenic routes through ugly places and missing the sunset for any old reason— to know not to let the door hit you on your way out.
Posted on: Fri, 26 Sep 2014 06:43:17 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015