What do I want to do for New Years? Something poetic. Something lonely and depressing (most poetic things are). I’ll climb an abandoned building, all the way to the top. Stand there on the ladder rungs in my party dress, I’ll try and feel that new year rush. Up top I will sit on the edge, on a crate or maybe an old sofa. Hugging my arms around me I will count. Saying goodbye to the year that came too fast, and left without even a note. I want this moment to last awhile. Because nothing’s ever long and slow anymore.
So I’m not taking you.
Or anyone.
It’ll just be me and my troubles holding shut the door against my 17th year. And when the countdown finally stops (which will be quite quick despite my shoving, New Year already has his foot in the door) I’ll cry silently behind closed eyelids. The bombs around me will blow, the noise defining as if time itself was being torn apart ( if I was only so lucky). And I will keep trying to count backwards. But we both know it won’t help. The clocks have already been rewound, 364 days 23 hours 58 minutes and 20 seconds to go. And somehow. I’m not quite sure how, but there in that moment with my eyes held tight, all the color bursting around me, I’ll learn a lesson. I’ll learn how to face another year.
So I’m not taking you.
I’m not taking anyone.
I’m not taking anyone.
174. I'm not taking you
175. Or anyone
176. Happy New Years!
