Last week, I booked a one-way flight out of here. When I told my parents, I felt a pang of guilt for the first time. Maybe I needed to leave this place thirteen times over two decades in order for it to start feeling like home. I wish I could stay long enough to hear it sing. I wish all it took to drown out the summer rain was a long, hard, cry. Everything still reminds me of my friends who died on purpose. The sound of waves crashing against the wet cliff. The wailing train whistle. The plate of untouched toast. I think about my friends who have wanted to die, or might still want to, on purpose. How do you separate a town from the memories of its people? How can anyone leave, intact? In a few months, the leaves will loosen & I will bleed my memories through new geographies. I will try my best to arrive intact, or close to it. Behind me, the hills will keep burning.

ocean