Gas Station


I have never claimed to be sunshine. In fact, I’ve spent much of my life learning to drive in the dark. You see, I am not moody like the girls on television who read poetry books and live on coffee. I am moody like an abandoned gas station. Fueled by emptiness. I am moody liked closed blinds and closed fists. And if you have ever accidentally fallen in love with me, you will know this. I am not mysterious. I am a fucking billboard painted over a thousand advertisements looking for love. Though sometimes I wonder, is the need to be loved really just self-validation? If it were possible to act on, both, impulse and hesitation then I am an unplanned vacation (if the airport lost your luggage, or you left your wallet at the station.) I have perfected making bad decisions like its an art and if I had a painting for all the ones I’ve made, I could host an exhibit on how to make your life fall apart. But I don’t make art lately. I am complacent, like a sink full of week-old dishes, or a tank full of dead fish. I cling to the promise of affection only half as long as the sting of rejection. The way clothing clings to flesh when caught in a downpour. I am the kind of heavy, dampness only a storm could adore. And if you have ever accidentally fallen in love with me, you will know this. My heart is an engine purring softly in a rusted blue car and these blackened mechanic’s hands have learned how to fix broken parts. This alone is what has driven me so far under many tear-drop skies, and long stretches of silence like unspoken goodbyes. Last May I accidentally fell in love with myself and what I had realized was this: It was always that love that fueled me. It has never really been the emptiness.

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