I like thrift stores, because they smell like somebody else’s grandmother. I collect them, pay them weekly visits, walk around slowly just to soak up all the old things. It strikes me that every thing that will ever remind me of father is old now. He is gone, and he’s been gone from me for so long that the moments we shared are archived only by the dusty shelves of a thrift store. I have to stop myself from buying little boxes and tiny glass jars, because I know I already have enough ways to feel trapped.
You cannot buy a puzzle from a thrift store unless you count out all five hundred pieces, and maybe that’s where I came from, because I’ve always been missing something. I gave my heart away before I understood the gift, and anyone who’s touched it since acquired it second hand. My love can be found in a thrift store; I am not useless, I am not hard to possess, I will keep you warm, but I am not shiny anymore.
For no reason at all, I climbed to the top of a tree like it was my salvation. I stood there, on limbs too weak to hold me, swaying in the wind, and I didn’t know anything. I asked myself why I was up so high… and the answer came to me in the sap stuck to my palm, micro tears in the skin on my hands, and the answer was… you don’t have to know why.
The alarm clock in my room has been flashing arbitrary numbers for weeks now. I ripped it from the wall because I’d rather wake up to birds, or my dog stretching, or my own pulse, and when I plugged it back in I didn’t love it anymore, and now it blinks at me in the night like one of my abandoned dreams because… you can’t make yourself love something.
I lost the apostrophe key on my computer and I just keep hoping that I’ll have the courage to put it back on, because without it, there is a beautiful hole of light in the monotony of my keyboard and because apostrophe’s are a luxury.
Today, in a thrift store, I held a tiny shoe, old mud still stuck in the treads, and I wanted so badly to have a tiny person to put into this tiny shoe and to get old and to love things like I loved when I had never been hurt, and I just don’t think I will ever get there.
Maybe it sounds like I’ve just lost it, but there are so many beautiful things to write down and so many more that are fucking ugly and I guess I just have to get them out, while I can. Everyone loves me to write love poems, and I just can’t keep saying pretty words to cover up the fact that I haven’t found a way to believe love can last. I’m not afraid to be alone, you know, I never expected a happy ending, but I am afraid for you to know that I am not magnificent; I am afraid to be the moment you lose your breath. I am not afraid to die, but I am afraid of the people who wanted me to become so much more.