This Town Has People In It

This town has people in it.

People with homes, and families, and pets. 

This town has people in it.

People with lives, lives like shooting stars, gleaming and bright and rare, rare as grass that’s green, water that’s blue.

This town has people in it. People like me and you. Well, me, anyway. No ones really like you, you’re unique, you’re a special little snowflake, just like mum and dad said, if they said it, which they did, didn’t they.

This town has people in it. People without homes, without families, without pets. People who sit on the roof of that tower block nobody ever locks properly, people whose legs hang off the edge, heels clicking idly, heart racing even now, even after all this time, because they could fall. It seems unlikely, ridiculous even, but they could.

This town has people in it, people who watch the stars and quite a few who don’t. People who wear dresses because they want to, and people who wear dresses because they think they should. People who howl at the moon and who lick their genitals clean every morning. People who wish they could lick their genitals clean every morning. People who have somebody else to lick their genitals for them.

This town has people in it. People with eyes and mouths and feet and toes. People with smiles and tears that stick to their cheeks in salty raindrops. People with regrets, and dreams that will end up regrets, and achievements that they perceive as regrets, and decisions. Too many decisions. 

This town has people in it. People like you, now that I think about it. Special snowflake people who say they hate themselves but aren’t really sure they do. Special snowflake people who have so much growing up to do, even though they shouldn’t, even though they’re old now. So unfathomably old.

This town has people in it. People who find little notes written on the back of receipts that have been left in the tip bowl. Notes that’s say I’d love to see you again, here’s my number. 

And then there are people who don’t think, who write notes without really deciding whether that’s what they want to do, and who sit in great green fields with the dog, because the dog really is pretty lazy, and who hear their phone ring and notice a creeping dread, a dread that they don’t understand, because they don’t remember leaving that number. They just remember the cloud that looked like a muffin passing by a few moments ago.

This town has people in it. Stupid people and smart people and smart people who are really pretty stupid and people who kiss in libraries because the sound of turning pages is music to their hearts.

This town has people in it. People who don’t kiss because they don’t want to, and people who don’t kiss because they don’t get the chance, people who kiss all the time but don’t enjoy it, people who stick their tongues into other people’s mouths then throw up in the school toilette because god, god! Why would people do that!

This town has people in it. People like me, I guess. People who, well, it’s hard to say. People who, y’know. People like me.

This town has people in it. It honestly does. People who have and who haven’t. People who could and who couldn’t. People who want and who wait and who wish and who worry. Messy people who make a bigger mess every single day.

This town has so many people in it. More than you could count. More messes then you’d ever like to think about. So grab a broom, says this special little snowflake. This town has people in it, after all, and people can do lots of things, and people can clean.

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