In tenth grade I went to paris. And I didn't even realize I was there.
In eleventh, I passed through on my way to Belgium.
In twelth, I bought a ticket, and fell in love with the "city of light". I wouldn't leave, I missed my flight. I stayed a few extra months. But as my age grew and my time in paris began shrinking, and the cafes that held the poetry nights were turning off their lifes, and my visas expiration date a few days away, I left my bags, and ran. I did all the things that I never did before: I saw the eifell tower, I went to the louvre, I saw all the sights, and toured all the museums, I even hopped on a tour bus. I winded up behind a shoe repair shop and did the only thing I came to Paris to do: I painted a poem.
I gave up my life, I gave up the temporary job that the program I was enrolled in gave me, I left the house that I lived in, I ran, I took all my savings and bought a little furnished apartment. I didn't (and still don't) speak french--it's hard to get a job in paris if you can't talk to anyone--so over the months I sold my belongings, starting with the T.V., then the couch, then the bedside table, then the rug, then my clothes, my books, my records, my bed sheets, my shoes, I sold everything, I wore the exact same clothes every day for three months, I'm skinny and malnurished, and every night I lie awake thinking of what Paris used to be, and the girl who left me, I think of how foolish I am, and that question that I was never able to answer: "Why did you ignore the warnings?" and the afterthought is imminent: "You knew that paris had (and still does have) one of the highest unemployment rates, and the same goes with homeless rates." I shoot up heroin to dull the pain, to forget about what I had, when I'm passed out, I dream of Alaska. Yesterday mourning I woke up, it was goddamn freezing, so I tore the wallpaper--to use it to start a fire in a gallon size can of tomato soup--but underneath the repetitive flower print, was the sillouette of New York, I've never been to New York, but I knew what it meant.
I can't afford a plane ticket out of here. The rent was due today, I only had 40 euros.
I got kicked out of my appartment, they didn't return my deposit--obviously.
I walked to the train station, bought myself some skag and another saringe, I walked into a resturant and stole a spoon. I borrowed a lighter and hopped a train to nantes.
There is this river outside of Nantes, it's called "the loire" my plan is to take one last hit, and drown myself in it. I was never going to leave paris, I should be in college. I should be doing something with my life. I shouldn't have let her leave. I shouldn't have drowned Mila. The ice never broke. Using her scarf, I suffocated her, and then smashed her head against the ice, it wouldn't break through, so I walked to shore and found a rock, and pounded and pounded till there was a hole big enough to fit her into.
I was never going to leave Paris. I might as well die here. I was never going to go to Alaska, I was never going to see the glaciers or fishing boats or the forests, I was never going to get her back.
I'll never leave France. Even if they fly me back to the states, my soul will remain in this country, my spirit will float down the loire, the animals and birds will drink me up, and my soul will end up as pigeon shit on every statue in Paris.
