st. christopher, hermit like me

no, my life wasn’t like a meteor shower

back when you thought you were hunter s thompson and i thought i was something like a shooting star we went down to the creek - you loaded on mushrooms, like a funny little polish dumpling, my head full of gerunds like running biting talking kissing fighting, 

not even the good gerunds like lampooning or crusading, because i’m soo common -

we went down to the creek to hold onto frogs and turtles with two hands. we should’ve been breaking down in front of the bellagio but we didn’t have the dough to burn out so decadently and besides, there’s no creature like the turtle. you hold her. look at her brave head, jutting out from the armored vehicle of her body. every movement is a schlep. but she doesn’t know any different - it’s been her body her whole life. this isn’t some cartoon turtle who can leap out of her shell when the coyotes get hungry. 

back when i lived up north i thought myself some kind of turtle savior. i’d see one try to cross the road and i’d pull the car over, dodging trucks piloted by texting teenagers, to grab ahold of these little fuckers. i’d deliver them. funny little packages destined toward a ditch. maybe i was less like a savior and more like st. christopher with baby turtles on my back

(you gave me an enamel pendant with his image on it)

while i was a shooting star i was also a hermit - no, my life wasn’t like a meteor shower, just a solitary firework shot across a sky.