Sincerely October

Crooked teeth

A chapter inspired by the lyrics from the song Crooked teeth by death cab for cutie.

Beneath the willow tree
No matter how dark the nights become, no matter how bruised your knees and ankles may be, the willow tree is always there.
You can leave for many months and when you return it will be just as you left it.
You never water the tree, you never ask how its day went or hug it when you leave, despite this it has always been there for you, always.
The willow tree always provided a place to retreat to, a place for you to be alone in.
During the spring you pick the surrounding daisies, during the summer you dance under the shade, during the autumn you read books with your back against its bark, and during the winter you drink hot cocoa.
You never thanked the tree, but you always relied on it, the tree dug you out of your early grave but you never thought to do anything for the tree, you never thought to acknowledge it to anyone, even yourself.
But the tree has kept you from drowning, the tree has provided sanctuary, so now you will water it and let the tree know you appreciate it, you always have.

Refused to fall
It's almost been a year since I spoke honestly about what happened.
Despite the cage he had put me in, despite the threats and true terror I told.
I didn't think I ever would, but I am so glad I did.
I felt that I was spilling everywhere, like I was bleeding into your wedding dress and onto your picnic blankets, but there was courage in letting my wounds breathe.
Everyday I scar over a little bit more than the day before.
I thought I was doing something wrong by not covering my wounds with lace socks, but I was doing everything as I should have.
I can feel my wounds healing, I am stronger than I was before.

A home in my heart
Many of the love letters I've written were to bottles and little bags.
I felt as if I carried summer in my backpack, I was in love with the drugs, and as long as my love was there I was happy to stay.
It's hard to hold something like that so close to your chest only to let it go, it's hard to feel an internal summer unlike anything you've ever known, unlike anything I'll ever know again, and let it go.
But, the internal summer will peel you back piece by piece until there's nothing left of you.
Maybe that used to be important to me but it doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't matter if I'm cutting the ribbons of my most cherished connections. It doesn't matter that I haven't painted the skylines I used to live under. It doesn't matter that I can't write anymore. It doesn't matter that I can't think or remember.
I peeled back my life relentlessly, I don't need friends, I don't need connection, I don't need hobbies, I know what I need.
I sat on my bedroom floor bare, realizing I had stripped away the paint of everything that mattered, every knit sweater and tube of facepaint had been thrown out. I wasn't myself anymore, I wasn't much of anything anymore.
I was a portrayal of what I thought I wanted and a painful representation of what I had lost.
Summer is over, and it's never coming back.
I had to fall out of love because my love would never be the same.
So maybe it is true that during the internal summer the sun never shined so bright, maybe it is true that those highs will never be replicated, but the sun shines through the windows now, the feeling of an external, blooming and fruitful spring will fill me, more than the plastic summer ever did.

Rotten wood
I wish I could write about something besides wanting what has ruined me but I can't seem to pull myself away from it.
Today is seventy days sober and I know this is the way I want to live, I know this is the way I want to stay and that it's not worth the trouble, but the drugs have a place in my heart.
They carried me, they kept me unwell but they held me.
I miss the burning sensation in my nose. I taught myself that this was the way and now I am taking a new path, but this one that's never been paved.
I know what remains behind me, I know what happens if I return, but I have never taken this way through the woods.

It's always this way
I guess I have always had an imaginative mind.
It's safer up in there, it's safe where their eyes can't wander,
I have a house of a mind, I live a full life in my own head.
It's strange, when reality feels more like a dream and my dreams feel more like reality.
Things feel easier to grasp within my mind, the world around me feels like it's made of plastic.
I am not unhappy with my surroundings, I am just not really in them.
I watch from the seaside but I never feel the water hit my ankles.