Florida is an open wound. It’s the butter left out on the counter that got too soft, the colony of squirrels scratching in your attic, a strong breeze and trash blowing in the wind. Here, time is a vacuum. Seasons are marginal, green oak leaves turn brown and clog up the gutters,
streets flood and children play in the water. One day feels like a week and then three years go by and you wake up in a fugue state, slightly sunburned, wiping the sweat from your upper lip. Florida is the sound of everything you ever wanted slipping away and still you stay—
it’s the place where people come after the real, hard world has kicked you one too many times. It’s the artificial sweetener in your fresh-squeezed lemonade. It’s fried chicken, cake, and mayonnaise and all the things you think you love until they make you sick. Some will congratulate you. Some will say it’s a fine place, for now. Some will assure you you’ll get out. Some wonder why you would ever want to leave. The minute you get close, a life-line tossed your way, a light open at the end of the tunnel, Florida digs in. It holds on tight. It addles your mind with empty promises and pretty sunsets. Florida wants you but it doesn’t love you. It wants to possess you, but it will push you to the edge of your sanity, and you won’t notice until it’s too late.

about the author

Carly Thompson is a New York City-based fiction and poetry writer. Find her on Instagram @carlythompson12 and on X @carlyt_writes.