Italy reminds me of painful things.

Previous selves,

A younger,

Elfish,

More beautiful me.

I told my father

How his grandmother died

He truly didn’t know

That sad dirty secret.

I drank, ate and biked

With my best friend

Who isn’t just a friend,

(We both know that

And it’s fine,

But we really should have sex

Some time,

Since his girlfriend wouldn’t mind).

Now I am in Sicily

Visiting my grandparents

Feeling angry

And guilty

Because they make each other miserable

And I just want to leave.

I wish I knew happy old people.

I would dread birthdays less.