King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1

Yesterday afternoon I almost started crying on the bus, listening to "Apt. #5" by Julie Ruin. It felt a lot like having my heart shredded into a thousand tiny pieces. It felt a lot like that first time he dislocated my shoulder, how I staggered out of bed and into the bathroom, tried to pop it back into place, cried where at least no one could see, though I'm sure he could hear me through the wall. So I tried to listen to something happier, forced myself to mouth the words to "The Punk Singer" and remind myself of this summer when really all I could think was:

you can tell anyone anything you want
but if you're gonna talk about how i deserved what you did
you can look now cause i'm gone

I remember being fifteen, writing Julie Ruin lyrics on scraps of paper and taping them over my bed like protective charms and I think it just might have worked, because nothing bad ever happened to me in that bed. It seems like an awfully long time ago, but sometimes it's so close to me that it hurts and every aching joint is a reminder.

I rode my bike today, just from Peabody to Bachelor, but it felt good to move fast against the wind, even if it meant the snow clumping thick on my eyelashes. I listened to Rancid and pedaled away some of the dread that's been following me around, singing along with the same old songs, pulled desperately between forgetting and remembering this past summer. I want it to be warm, I want to ride around town with my stereo in the basket, I want to have bike parties and picnics and I want to feel like I can write again because lately all I do is literally drag words out of myself and work desperately to get them down on paper.

There are moments (like right now) where I feel almost hopeful, ready to try a little bit harder, to treat myself a little better. But mostly it is an uphill struggle and I am constantly doubting myself, wondering how it got to be this way.