Do you know what growing up looks like?
The other day, my best friend told me, “We never grow up. Don’t be fooled. We’re all still immature, right there with you.”
I hoped to the stars that she was right. Days passed. I felt like I was growing backwards. Growing down. Like my past was swallowing me. Does that make sense?
Does growing up make sense?
Every cigarette was a day marker.
Day One: close.
Day Two: closer.
Day Three: closest.
Day Four: boom.
Love is the hardest simple emotion we will ever know. It is more than ‘chemistry.’ It is a chemical reaction. It is an explosion.
Do you remember princesses, Little Girl? How you used to dance around the kitchen and believe that fate would deliver you the palms of a boy who had it all figured out?
The other day, I told my other best friend, “I can’t not go for ‘fucked up.’ I am drawn to the mess.” It’s true. When the mess is not there, when the heart is clean, I have nothing to say. I pretend to sift through chaos that does not exist. I throw around my own thoughts in their ribcage, scribble anxiety on their stomachs.
But don’t you see, it’s a mirage. I cannot carry my clutter into other people’s chests. It is hardly portable. It is much too heavy.
So I picked the messiest mess, and for once it was not mine. I dove right in. (I thought this was not possible. I thought that I’d already seen the filthiest faces, the most disheveled of shoulders.)
I never stopped to consider it takes two to wreak that much havoc. I never stopped to consider that I was the one throwing all the shit around in the first place. Messmakers like clean hearts to make messes in. I never saw a heart before I stepped inside. Maybe they were all clean in the first place.
Little Girl, start dancing again.
Stop throwing things.
Chemistry’s not always strong enough to react. Explosions are not always beautiful.