I Used to Hate Country Music

back when I thought only listening to the painfully beautiful guitar riffs of Kurt Cobain or the psychedelic rhythms of Tame Impala could get you taken seriously / when I scoffed at the acoustic strum of switching off the AC and rollin’ the windows down / when I paired every dress with Doc Martens to wordlessly stomp on my behalf / I am unique!! I am interesting! / but once I moved thousands of miles away / the car radio no longer crooned any twang / and I no longer needed to protest my individuality / instead it was pointed out to me each time I dropped the extra vowel in colour / or fielded foreign curiosity into Texas bbq and / tailgates / deep dish pizza / home runs / groundhog day / and despite myself / I missed it — / the cold beers to chase away the blues / pickup trucks / and denim cutoffs only found on a dusty dirt road winding through the cornstalks of middle America / in the grassy field where we attempted “artsy” graduation pictures / I yearned to be wrapped in the comfort of a simple chorus and refrain about summer love / to hear the relentless buzzing of cicadas / for the melodies to usher me back to nights catching fireflies in mason jars (not from Pottery Barn) / to air so thick with rain that the morning grass tickled our feet wet / to Fourth of July’s and riding the mechanical bull in Wrigleyville amidst the probably-too-loud laughter of friends / wrapping me into blue jean and flannel hugs / to welcome me home.