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I don’t wish you were here, but I do wish you well.

What is to be done with bridges after they’ve burned? To rebuild is to admit defeat. Even in the smoldering mess of my own making, I don’t want to mend: matches still in my hand. That bridge had people on it. What would you see if you looked at my eyes now? I don’t think I’m recognizable, I probably don’t deserve more than an averted glance. When I moved away, I thought my parents would resent me and my friends would be proud of me, but my friends resent me and my parents are proud of me. It’ll all end horribly or not at all. Best to leave it alone. I’ll build some new bridges, and hopefully, they’ll last a little longer.

I had to do something.

No one told me that my parents were gonna get old. Away indefinitely for over a year now and I realize my father won’t always be forty for me. Going back home is a reminder of death. The only thing that brings me close to tears anymore is the thought of the old dying. They deserve it least of all.

I’ve become and always have been a cliche.

I only had the little ink that was left in a single engraved pen. I’m tired of metaphors. Why is it that I can’t write about myself? I want to be a robot on an assembly line, tuning parts and fitting them together—all day, everyday. I want to be a robot, all the desire excised from my body. Then, I wouldn’t want to be a robot.

I have feelings I can’t express.

A woman, a truly wonderful, life-changing, devastatingly beguiling woman, only seems to come once every couple years. I think there’s been four so far. It might be too early to call it. But, does anything ever change? It’s the same every time. Maybe it’s the women who can never love you that change you the most.