And, even though I’d have loved to lose a toe or two in the city of broken dreams, I figured it was highly unlikely that Hatred’d even make it there in the first place. He’d get off-track somewhere along the line, tempted by some blue-eyed baby punk with bad skin and a homemade anarchy tattoo whose boyfriend’s lip was in desperate need of a splittin’. I’d packed his bindle full of pb&j sammiches, condoms, and smokes before sending him on his way.
Losing was a solitary act, just how I figured religion was s’posed to be. I wore it like a crucifix, fucked it like a lover, used it to light candles, and altered my body in accommodation. I hoped that if I kept on practicing with the patience of a saint, then someday, maybe, it wouldn’t even smart.
I wrote odes and obituaries on hand-made maps; I made up dirges to the rhythm of Johnny Cash songs. It felt important to pay plenty of respect to all the things I’d lost, but I was also keen on keeping some kind of whereabouts-track. I had fantasies of myself as a fully-formed girl, retracing my tire-tracks, trunk full of forget-me-nots to sprinkle on my graves. I hoped that if I wished upon enough stars and eyelashes, the fairies might be nice enough to mark my leavings with seeds. I had my fingers crossed for weeping willows, though magnolia trees would do in a pinch.