Photo by Maxime Horlaville on Unsplash
My mind is a naughty dog that breaks its chain every goddamned night. It runs away in the darkness, runs away from home and heart. Runs as fast as it can, as far as it can. But my dog always comes back, with its tail between its legs, licking the wounds I wear with pride.
Sitting here in a brand new expensive room I rent with money I don’t own, I can’t help but think about all the blood I gave you. My Irish blood, my blue blood, my boiling blood. What did you do with all of it, huh? How’d you like the taste? Maybe I’ve put too much of it on the page. There were days when I couldn’t do anything but bleed; I just had to bleed somewhere, you know. And it seemed like all those white vampire pages were begging for it.
These days I can’t seem to bleed as well as before. It used to flow out of me; I could write rivers in an hour, and now I feel like it’s dripping, slowly, painfully. There are a bunch of reasons, I’m sure. Like the bone in my spine that snapped a few weeks back. Like the cold metal and plastic brace that’s tightened around my whole torso, holding my heart back. Like the painful mornings waking up alone. Like the silly assignments American teachers give me. Like the fucking cigarettes I shouldn’t be smoking. Like the runs I can’t take anymore, and the rides I can’t make.
Listen, I just want to get my good bleeding back. To give what I owe to the page more often. I want my dog to stop running away, just for a while. I’m having a hard time being the hero of my story right about now. Rough chapter. Some days my heart isn’t beating, it’s ticking.
I’m standing on the edge of a Colorado mountain, and I feel calm like a bomb. I promise I won’t blow up. But you already knew that, didn’t you?