in the field behind my parents’ house, there is an out-of-use railroad track long since rusted over. i am blue today so that’s where i go. in the white dress with my book and cigarettes, i go there to be lonely, and okay within that loneliness. it’s not a pretty place, but it’s quiet at least. the ants are on me the moment i bring out my tupperware of strawberries. i don’t mind them. i say hello ants, how’s the colony? hello little ants. hello, hello. this is strange behaviour, especially for someone who normally reels at the sight of anything with more than four legs, but some days i am blue and when i’m blue, i am not myself. or i am entirely myself. i come to here to figure that out. it doesn’t help, but it’s quiet at least. i like to underline things as i read, anything that twists me, like my sister performing a chinese burn on my forearm when i was younger. that sudden heat, that red flare. days like this i tie my hair up and move my head side to side just to feel it swish. i am that awful person that licks her finger to turn a page. i’ve a thing about fingers - about hands, and wrists. i like to watch the tendons move as someone types or cracks their knuckles. like to faux-read peoples’ palms, making up versions of their future, sometimes putting myself in them. ooh, this line shows a dark-haired girl who’ll tempt you into loving her. beware. i brown beneath the sun all day, grow hot and languid. this is how i beat the blues: i tire them out. like children, they spend a few hours in the sun and are soon ready to be put to bed. i tuck them in, kiss their foreheads; their eyelids flutter and they’re gone. just me in the field, applying and reapplying chapstick, listening to the birds be birds, weaving blades of grass together. nothing special or revolutionary, but once again: it’s quiet at least.