1.1.23, or the space between firsts and lasts
this year's cut me off mid-sentence and run off with the punchline, like a sibling who leaves your bedroom door open. what a bumpy ride. I can barely recall who I've been.
here's to the neverendingness of should have beens - like Morrissey should have been a Marxist, Wilde should have remained uncensored and I should have bought a darker dress.
here's to what I'll never do and dream of doing regardless. here's a glass of the bitter champagne I can't get myself to swallow. here's to my drunk grandfather's love confessions. here's to getting better when I feel I'm getting worse. here's to you and the fact I keep secrets about everyone I know from everyone I know.
I make too many promises to myself and I pretend I forget them, but I want my ashes to be spread over the same ocean who birthed me.
here's to the car-crash poets.