because they'll soon know where i live

keep art alive; art by sanithna phansavanh

enough rope

she packed all she could fit in a backpack,
nothing more, nothing less, and ran.
down the stairs, out the door, 'cross the highway,
never looking back.

"hitchiking is suicide",
her last friend from the world had said,
"might as well get a rope and just hang yourself.
get it over with."

over with.
over with.
over with.

well, he wouldn't have to know, wouldn't have to see,
her thumb stuck out,
in defiance,
in reverance,
in some sort of jelly-filled desperation.

"where to?" he said, through yellow-crooked teeth.

where to?
where to?
where to?

she wanted to lose herself in the mountains,
paint tales of wonder on the sides of trees,
crawl down into civilization long enough for a cold glass of coke,
slice of pie, a smile.

she stepped up into the elevated cab,
a slight shiver trailing to the base of her spine, l
aughing to cover fear.

"i guess, just to the next town." she said, in a half whisper,
half gasp.

and the road spread out before them.

before them.
before them.
before them.

he smelled of marlboro reds and coffee,
like her father before he left,
same flannal, too.
she wanted to touch his hand,
for it to be his,
for it not to be some kind of a come-on.

but she was used to this, by now,
how the smell of her skin brought out the animal.
guava. vanilla. and something more.
and they all wanted the more of it,
she opened her mouth wider,
closed her eyes,
thought of blue skies,
buttered popcorn at the main west,
double-features,
the last line of 'blue'.

he dropped her off. crumpled. torn.
the neon blinking no vacancy.

no vacancy.
no vacancy.
no vacancy.

she lifted up her backpack,
spit,
went to the pop machine,
a cold coke,
and kept walking.

the mountains had to be here,
somewhere.
she would make her stellar entrance there,
shed her clothes,
her scent,
lose herself in the green and grub.

"if i had enough rope, i might just hang myself.
here."
(written by me)

me & a gun ~ tori amos