I used to fall for the boys with lifted trucks, the one’s who’d come to school with their trucks covered in mud, the one’s who wanted to ‘hangout’ on a dirt road, the one’s who got lost in the woods and lit things on fire for fun.
I used to fall for the boy with lifted trucks, the one’s who owned guns and shot at old TVs for fun, the one’s who’d rather catch or kill their dinner than step foot in a grocery store, the one’s who brought me wild flowers instead of a bouquet of roses.
I used to fall for the boys with lifted trucks, the one’s who wore dusty cowboy boots and were drunk on Fireball at every country concert, the one’s who lived in flannels and called you baby.
I used to fall for the boys with lifted trucks, the one’s who would ditch school to go hunting, the one’s who wore camo no matter what the occasion was and had Skoll rings forever imprinted in their jeans.
I used to fall for those boys, the one’s your parents didn’t want you to hang around, the one’s who smelled like cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes way before they were of age. The one’s who didn’t try to fit in, the one’s who were going to stay in this small town forever.
I used to fall for the boys who made me feel alive, who made my stomach knot up and my adrenaline rush, the one’s who I never got bored of, the one’s who kept things interesting even when we were doing nothing.
I used to fall for the boys who tried to grow up too fast, the one’s who’d pick me up late at night when I’d sneak out of my parent’s house. I used to fall for the boys who were no good for me, the one’s who drove lifted trucks because they wanted to be seen.
I still think about it sometimes, I think about heading back down that road, the one my young, naive self went down for far too many years because that’s all that was here. I think about sitting in the truck bed looking at the stars, I think about making our own short cuts to the lake so we could have our own private spot, I think about all the trouble we used to get ourselves into.
I think about all the fun I had with the boys who drove lifted trucks.
I think about what my life would be like if I stayed, if I didn’t leave. I wonder if I could be happy with it, with the Busch beer cans stacked tall in the fridge and the Remington shotgun shells piled up in the garage. If I’d still be happy going for drives during the middle of the day with no destination in mind, if I’d still be happy hooking up in the middle of a field, if I’d still think sitting on a frozen lake in the middle of winter was the perfect date.
Part of me does.
Part of me wishes I could go back because nothing else gives me that feeling inside my chest.
I used to fall for the boys with lifted trucks because it made me feel something, it made me feel alive in a town that was so dead.
I used to fall for the boys with lifted trucks, and sometimes I still do.
Because old habits die hard.