Sundays Souvenirs of Terrible Years

I Want My Fucks Back

Sometimes the past leaves little souvenirs.

A name. A place. A photograph. A song.

And suddenly, there it is again.

Hot as lava.

I used to think that meant I hadn't moved on.

Now I know better.

I've spent too many fucks wondering why people didn't like me, defending myself against other people's versions of me, explaining myself to people committed to misunderstanding me, and carrying drama that was never mine.

I'd like those fucks back.

I don't have time for gaslighting clowns on bicycles.

I have better places to spend them.

My children.
My family.
My art.
My garden.
My body.
My music.
My ridiculous beautiful clothes.
My beaches.
My life.

A big life.

A fucking full life.

Sometimes the lava still rises.

But it cools faster now.

And I remember:

I don't live in the past.

I live where my feet are firmly planted, lava and all in my veins.

So I'm giving back the little souvenirs of terrible years.

“Here's Where the Story Ends” — The Sundays. Give them a listen.

And fuck 'em.

My eyes are sore
for salt water and sun.

I no longer ask why.

Surprise, surprise, surprise.

I'm on the outside.

Where I belong. ❤️

Onward.