by Alcoholic Poet
She looked and saw the sky scarred with clouds. She was leaving home in an effort to find it. Wheels couldn't take her there. Only footsteps could negotiate the path she had in her head. Of leaving without being gone. Touch without skin. Truth without exception.
She didn't want to die. Not then. But she did want to die. Some time soon. Under a sky as dark and as bright as this one.
Or at least pretending to be.
Until the next storm.
She thought as she examined every crack in the clouds, someday my secret will be told, by the the thickest branch on the nearest tree.
Someday I will make myself small enough to spill through those holes that are always there in the sky when I look up.
She opened up her cellphone. The backlight reminded her of sex. The low murmur of that electricity usually dormant thoughtlessly coming alive from beneath her skin.
For her to see what buttons to press.
The ocean was loud at the back of her neck. Her yellow bike breathed quietly against the saline wind. People passed. So many people. And she noticed how they didn't notice her. Imagining herself sinking into the wall she sat upon; becoming as red as it.
Something soft left alone long enough to become hard.
She tapped in each number one at a time rather than using the memory function. Imagining she was karmicly whispering in his ear.