Nostalgic for Disaster
memory
I’ve been stuck in this fit of nostalgia, lately. Drinking in all your old letters like late-night doses of alcohol. Storing your words in the safety deposit box I call my lungs. I’ve been listening to all these old mixtapes, lately. I just keep reliving the same winter over and over and over again. All these worn out and tired memories.
To be honest, those memories aren’t even all that good.
All old and tarnished. Living in the dark and letting others dictate my life for me. All those times I couldn’t sleep because I stayed up and pretended to talk to you. Staying up until six in the morning waiting for something dramatic and horrible to happen. Just waiting for a disaster to come whisk me off my feet.
It’s not glamorous, or even worthy of being told.
Sometimes I’ll sit in the same place and listen to the same song wearing the same clothes and feeling that same feeling of despondence. And I’m back in time. Two years. Four. I’m never quite sure because all my memories are of being trapped in the dark. I just know that everything was car rides and music and the cold. It was all lies and self-pity and shame for everything that has yet to happen. Christmas lights and car rides. It was always cold, but at least it kept me awake.
I’m saying this, knowing that I’m slipping back into that mind space with blaring intensity. Steadfast like a train headed towards a brick wall. Strips of blood dripping from ribcages. Poetry printed and ripped from it’s binding.
I am so painfully nostalgic for disaster.
To be honest, those memories aren’t even all that good.
All old and tarnished. Living in the dark and letting others dictate my life for me. All those times I couldn’t sleep because I stayed up and pretended to talk to you. Staying up until six in the morning waiting for something dramatic and horrible to happen. Just waiting for a disaster to come whisk me off my feet.
It’s not glamorous, or even worthy of being told.
Sometimes I’ll sit in the same place and listen to the same song wearing the same clothes and feeling that same feeling of despondence. And I’m back in time. Two years. Four. I’m never quite sure because all my memories are of being trapped in the dark. I just know that everything was car rides and music and the cold. It was all lies and self-pity and shame for everything that has yet to happen. Christmas lights and car rides. It was always cold, but at least it kept me awake.
I’m saying this, knowing that I’m slipping back into that mind space with blaring intensity. Steadfast like a train headed towards a brick wall. Strips of blood dripping from ribcages. Poetry printed and ripped from it’s binding.
I am so painfully nostalgic for disaster.