But I fear I am beginning to enjoy the unraveling too much. Like one of those wayfarers who hop trains and always with the dog and the dreadlocks, the one who decides to leave before knowing there was an alternative option to stay, the realization hitting them like the train in which they are barreling west through the Bonneville Salt Flats and at this point why not just aim for the Pacific?
It will never take you to where it is you want to go, and you will never know where that is unless you stop long enough to catch your breath. To look someone in the eyes. To see yourself. Besides, you’re skinny as shit and no, it’s not your genes. It’s because you’re slowly running yourself to death, doing damage to your precious and delicate and life-giving insides and you’ll still be paying for it 10 years later when you’re trying oh-so-desperately to have a period and keep your brittle bones from breaking. You’ll call these your lost years.