My Blood holds a special kind of understanding between Kira and I. I have texted her some of the lyrics when she’s been at school some days.
Past the age of 30 everyone has collected at least one shameful secret. From international war crimes to embarrassing crushes, we all have things we’d rather keep hidden. But hiding can be tiresome.
Some songs come to you in a tremendous moment of need. Some songs are needed like a dose of Ibuprofen during the emotional inflammation that is failure.
This song goes off like a nail bomb. It carries, not an earworm, but an ear leech, that latches on and will not be silenced.
This love felt frightening. This love felt dangerous, even. And gambling everything for it – including my own life – felt reckless. But still.
We hit the road. I press play on the album Baby Caught The Bus by Clairy Browne and the Bangin' Rackettes. I lose count of how many times I replay Love Letter.
The crooning chant you hear in the background pings and pangs as you slump on the floor, hands in your head.
For once, people in Los Angeles and London and New York might be sitting around listening to a song about where I lived, rather than my sitting around listening to songs about all the places that they live.
My heart hurts as we head towards Port Arthur. So much can depend on one moment; the café we walk into, the car that stops. And as we drive, I tell you about my moment.
After breaking up and getting back together 152 times, I finally found an exit strategy that would stick. My Happiness was awaiting me – I just had to meet it halfway.