New YEAR’S EVE
At the end of every year, I look so quickly forward. With my friends and family hugged tight around me, I banish the past into itself: my memories become quiet antiques in my brain, silent and dim, for cobwebs to eat. I ache to forget - to create new memories from the promise of a single change in number.
Because some years are hard. They are candy wars. Splintering arguments and anecdotal math (where were you/why did you/who made you) and tempered backs and burning forests. Some years are a blistered white couch and whispering yourself asleep, again again again. Some years you don’t sleep.
Some years are lonely, so angry. They are flickering miserable lights strung along the side of a galaxy: tiny suns to be reflected. Some years long to be seen and spoken about, to never be ignored, to instead be memorized like a stamp of time inside the eyelid of the person you’ve always loved the most. Some years fight for big moments.
Some years are hungry. They are velvet choking tongues and queen pockets of hand grenades. They are flowers and cake, a new teal bicycle, your flooded broken heart. They are the swallowing eyes of your best friends who know when something is wrong but know better than to ask. Some years want you to feed them. Some years give nothing back.
Some years are winter. They are iridescent stillness on the cheek of your last love, they are broken pennies on the back of his ear, the sigh of rebirth in a sister state, your father’s giant hands. Some years punish you with joy: they are cold like a big dead star, they are everything you’ve ever wanted.
Some years are fire. They are death passion and broken skirts and stinging tears and people so beautiful, so mystical, you could taste them if you just stared a little longer. A year of blinding orange light - frozen time, a weight, a dream. When a fire year ends, nothing is left but an oven of memories and delicate, worthy wounds.
Something will grow again.