I’m ankle-deep in cinderblocks that I’ve sugar-coated with
love and confusion to smooth out the edges. Something gets lost in the
transition between bitter abrasiveness and sweet acceptability, shards of consequences
lying among remnants of fingernails, pieces torn from clutching tight to my
special brand of broken. I’m drinking myself blurry to forget the throbbing
pulses of pain while I sit on gasoline-stained pavement and trace tragic
spirals around my feet. It’s a potent mixture of nostalgia, ripe with the
stench of the moment, filling my nostrils with fumes of past happiness and
childhood misconceptions and a hint of the future. If I wear these shoes long
enough, maybe I’ll grow into a beautiful streetlight, instead of just another
concrete obstruction waiting for a careless collision.
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