Drive Thru
Early in the week, late night:
Early in the week, late night:
The alcohol from the bar I perform at quenches my thirst for anything but water.
I drive on a highway, alone.
At the drive thru, “sweet tea” is a term that flows out of my mouth like a foreign language.
You see, I am not originally Southern.
Nor was I originally Northern, really.
Just a minor technicality.
The one person that got me and understood brought me here.
Sure it may have been for his own reasons but I need to believe that it is because he truly saw me and realized that I didn’t belong there.
He took me away from a place where I couldn’t be comfortable in my own skin.
The ketchup from the burger I asked for drips on my jeans like some tears from a bad memory.
I try to pretend that I am tougher than I am.
Doesn’t everybody?
When in reality I just want to curl into a ball and let everyone know how vulnerable I am.
“Be careful with me. I’m broken,” I beg.
I really am something that can never be fixed.
But, then again, isn’t everyone like that.
How many times does one have to crack before they run out of glue to patch them?
The sweet tea leaves a bittersweet taste in my mouth and I think about the time my best friend and I dared each other to do stupid things like lick a battery.
I think about how I thought those times were perfect. How I was much more perfect compared to now.
Sometimes I want to look at them and spout a blurb I wrote once as an angst filled teenager,
“I’m no Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach
I’m not Vonnegut, Bradbury, or Chandler
I’m no Stevie, although I always wanted someone to tell me I sing like her
I’m no Shakespeare, Dickinson, or Frost
I’m no Marilyn, I can’t be today
So, stop shouting at me that way!
I’m not perfect”
The younger girl leans out the window and smiles, “That will be $6.75, please”
She’s right I owe her. Just like I owe everyone else.
No comments:
Post a Comment