I have dreams too big for this city,
ambition that would flood the streets of this town,
and an inability to keep my mouth shut when I should.
I fell in love by the side of a swimming pool when I was fourteen,
and at a café in London when I was sixteen,
and never again.
I have a tendency towards dissatisfaction;
an insatiable thirst to be right.
If I could put glue on both of my hands
and paste this world back together,
And perhaps it would be more broken than it was before I touched it.
But my blood is more of fire than of flowers, and
it would be a lie to say I don’t crave an apocalypse.
At least on some days.
My mind flips between desire and anxiety, lust and audacity
like a projector screen flashing in a dark classroom.
We came here, but for what?
This year I will pack my life into a suitcase,
get on an airplane,
and fly away.
It’s that easy.
A plane ticket, a piece of paper, permission to leave.
And suddenly “dreams too big for this city”
feel small in a city that is too big for dreams.
Ambition that only touches the street like a single raindrop,
joining a river of the passion of those anonymous masses.
But I still can’t keep my mouth shut.
I’m walking in the wake of devastation,
or maybe I am the devastation,
but death is a stranger I have known my whole life.
Her fingerprints are on everything that fades.
And I can’t stop running.
Even if it leads me back here.