Fire and Rain [🗸]

1. screw greenport, (respectfully)

IT'S A LITTLE FUCKED UP that I consider flinging myself onto the train tracks as I watch the noon train leave the station.

I don't do it. Jump, I mean. The train speeds away and I stand at the train station, looking down at the tracks. 

It's almost romantic.

You know those films—the films with the bittersweet lover running after the moving train while the love of their life is onboard. These are the best movies; the ones that strip your fucking heart out and feed them to the dogs.

But this isn't a romance movie. 

Being here, back at home— none of this is romantic in any way. If anything, it's the opposite of a perfect movie. 

If we're being real honest right now, it fits better into the horror genre.

My summer is really about to get stolen by a half-conservative, suburban town with tacky tourism and bittersweet memories.

I grab my bags, the sunlight pouring onto my face. Everything feels sticky, and it's barely June. The sky's the same wide, gaping blue that I remember, and there's a scent of flowers that's burned into the back of my mind.

I love it and I hate it.

I'm in one of those white cottage-esque tops with oversized shorts. When I pass by people, they send brief glances my way. A man whistles. I wish I knew how to throw a good punch.

Someone's cooking barbecue, and I use the scent of burnt patties to keep me sane.

I grab a taxi and stress the entire way home. 

Every time I respond to the overly-friendly Italian, I analyze every single word that leaves my lips. Maybe I'm speaking too high. Maybe I'm speaking too fast. Did he interpret that the way that I wanted him to?

I'm a disaster.

Somehow, said disaster manages to make it through a social interaction and I eventually make my way home without screwing anything up further. The driver offers me a toothy grin and soon, he's gone, leaving only empty road behind him.

And finally, I arrive at my 13th reason.

Inhale, exhale.

My home looks disgustingly unassuming. It's pretty with flowers and white paint and the overexaggerated suburban radiating from it.

Inhale, exhale.

This is your summer, I remind myself. Get a goddamn grip. 

Inhale, exhale.

It doesn't feel like my summer. It feels like someone else's summer. Someone's own idea of what my only summer of being twenty-one should look like. Someone else is calling the shots and spinning the wheel, and I don't like it.