I grew up in a small town.
Not the kind of small where you know everyone and their parents by a first name basis or the kind of small that has one convenience store and a cafe, but the kind of small that you just can’t wait to get out of.
The kind of small where you can’t help but feel a little trapped.
I’ve never been the girl to feel claustrophobic; I like small places. Little caves and crawl-spaces tend to feel so big when I’m alone especially compared to the stifling and suffocating nature of this town of mine.
I’m always gasping for air— grasping for a hand to hold onto, a hand connected to somebody who I can connect to but no matter how hard my friends try, their experiences are light years away from mine, running on different trajectories in different planes of existence and they could never truly understand no matter how many times I tell them. And believe me; I’ve tried plenty of times.
So, with virtually nobody to relate to, I sit alone on shards of broken glass; bleeding, sobbing, praying at night for an escape from this wretched place to a god I don’t believe in.
Tell me; what happened to the charm of a small town?
