Summary: The narrator is alone with their memories.
On October 8th 1799
A few well intentioned friends tugged a story out of me prematurely
Until I gave birth to this town from the mouth of a bicycle entombed in concrete
My legs became the levee and I bled until I didn't know how to stay still anymore
My fever dreams became clouds and flooded the Walmart parking lot at night like the ashes of stars
Like the ashes of my first kiss
I had my eyes open when no one else did
Because I was so depersonalized then
It was before they laid me out on the water table for someone else's subconcious Sunday school notions of ancesteral sin
I woke up in the old graveyard beneath a garland of cigarette smoke tinted with the lipstick of a fracked mountain and everybody's business
The grass was wet against my cheek with river mist
And I stared into the future eye level with your shoes in my footsteps
I told you to run but you were as brave as I was in all the wrong ways
And when I stopped bleeding into that river you opened your wrists to the sidewalk
I tried to save you with my eyes closed
I pressed a pocket watch to your chest
Yelled into your ear in your own voice 'take this and go'
But we didn't know how not to be heroes.
I found myself standing vigil in the current in your absence
It's the only thing I've ever been good at.
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