Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

Spent the last few days looking over my shoulder, staring at the past. Moments lost in indecision rekindled over a small conversation. The excess baggage I chose for this trip scuffs as it rolls down the street, dragged behind me. A load too heavy to shoulder alone.

Four walls make a house, but the empty halls echo like a tomb. On the fridge, a magnet reading: “Depression is my copilot.” Scrawled beneath it with childhood magnetic letters: “My other plane is anxiety.”

Chain mail letters promising futures etched in ink. Looks better on paper. Folded airplanes dashing through the air, crashing and burning on impact. I smoked love letters over coffee. Never promised you a rose garden while promising you the world.

White picket fences in a sandstorm. Tattered denim jeans. Clothes hung out to dry. Garments for the world to see. I spray painted a broken promise, signed it with our initials wrapped in a heart.

Move too quick and leave it behind. I trudge forward. Oil-slicked road covered in tar. I walked a mile for you; wasn’t that enough? The caged animal remembers its freedom. It’d give it up if it could.

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