Growing up in a state of Jell-O molds and chronic unrest, I fell in love with men who knew about shoes and guitar strings, but nothing about caves and mines.
We were always a disaster.
We always left places and each other in a state of disrepair, airing our dirty laundry, giving up fast.
Being an outsider in a state of big business religion and organized family time leaves little to no mess, just unheard confessions and positive vibes.
I said I'd still love them. I said I'm a hopeless cliche, but that it would be worth it in the end.
I wore nice white sandals to a dirty shore by a lake no one likes. I thought I'd look for shells they could use as picks while they write songs denying their origin.
So heavy. Too heavy. They'll never write those songs, I'll never find shells because I'll never go to that lake.
Staying in a state with high altitude and dry summers leaves me with nose bleeds and cracked skin. Falling in love does the same.