(no subject)
The summer I was eight years old, I came for the first time...
I remember mom in her red dress. Rose tinted glasses, big plastic earrings and a bottle of Nehi in her hand. I remember how she smelled that day, but more than that, I remember the smell of dirt and fresh cut grass. I remember the nervous flutter in my belly, and I remember his smile and the way she flirted with him on the field. Looking back on it now, I see myself in her and visa versa, the coy smiles and careless swagger, but that'd only be one side of my self, older and twisted and matured into what I am today.
I remember so much about that summer. The weight of the bat in my hand. Dirt caked into the knees of my uniform. The way my glove smelled after a game. The way his hands felt on my face. What his tongue tasted like. Syrupy sweet movie theater candy and the worn velvet cushions on the back rows. The speckles and swirls on his bedroom ceiling and that fucking sticky joystick on his Atari. The way that fruit loops feel, crushing under the weight of my spine. Feeling so fucking special, honored, unique, and then feeling completely and utterly alone. And even now, I find myself going back to these places so I don't have to forget. Proof of why I am the way that I am. Maybe proof that it's all behind me now. It's still there, but there's nothin' should be holding me back now.
The summer I was eight years old, I fell in love for the first time. Twelve years later and I can't think to call it anything else. Regardless of what he was doin' with me -- to me, at the time, I'd been in love... as much as any eight year old can be.
The summer I was eighteen years old, I fell in love again. Doesn't matter the result, I know now and I knew then that it was real, fucked up as it all was, in the end. Nearly four months gone, and I still find myself drawn back. Too many reminders of the plans we made. The promises we made. Too many reasons why it can't ever be the same again.
The summer's ending soon and I'm twenty. An adult, a kid, whatever... I don't know when you stop being one and become the other. I haven't felt like a kid in a really long time. Didn't feel like I was growing up, moving on, until just recently. The summer's ending and I'm sitting on the baseball field, cigarette in hand, the games closet's one and only baseball in the other. That same ball Ray tossed around for his son, just days ago.
I feel different than I have any other summer in my life. And somehow, even now, I've got enough hope left in me, sitting on the field and staring into my past, that maybe this time I won't have to keep gettin' dragged back under by how things used to be.
I remember mom in her red dress. Rose tinted glasses, big plastic earrings and a bottle of Nehi in her hand. I remember how she smelled that day, but more than that, I remember the smell of dirt and fresh cut grass. I remember the nervous flutter in my belly, and I remember his smile and the way she flirted with him on the field. Looking back on it now, I see myself in her and visa versa, the coy smiles and careless swagger, but that'd only be one side of my self, older and twisted and matured into what I am today.
I remember so much about that summer. The weight of the bat in my hand. Dirt caked into the knees of my uniform. The way my glove smelled after a game. The way his hands felt on my face. What his tongue tasted like. Syrupy sweet movie theater candy and the worn velvet cushions on the back rows. The speckles and swirls on his bedroom ceiling and that fucking sticky joystick on his Atari. The way that fruit loops feel, crushing under the weight of my spine. Feeling so fucking special, honored, unique, and then feeling completely and utterly alone. And even now, I find myself going back to these places so I don't have to forget. Proof of why I am the way that I am. Maybe proof that it's all behind me now. It's still there, but there's nothin' should be holding me back now.
The summer I was eight years old, I fell in love for the first time. Twelve years later and I can't think to call it anything else. Regardless of what he was doin' with me -- to me, at the time, I'd been in love... as much as any eight year old can be.
The summer I was eighteen years old, I fell in love again. Doesn't matter the result, I know now and I knew then that it was real, fucked up as it all was, in the end. Nearly four months gone, and I still find myself drawn back. Too many reminders of the plans we made. The promises we made. Too many reasons why it can't ever be the same again.
The summer's ending soon and I'm twenty. An adult, a kid, whatever... I don't know when you stop being one and become the other. I haven't felt like a kid in a really long time. Didn't feel like I was growing up, moving on, until just recently. The summer's ending and I'm sitting on the baseball field, cigarette in hand, the games closet's one and only baseball in the other. That same ball Ray tossed around for his son, just days ago.
I feel different than I have any other summer in my life. And somehow, even now, I've got enough hope left in me, sitting on the field and staring into my past, that maybe this time I won't have to keep gettin' dragged back under by how things used to be.