There is a place I've decided to come to. A place not too far from where I live, where the fountain waters try to reach the sky, and sounds of waste in the gutter run free. A distant truck passes. Lightning gleams pink behind the now-departing clouds. No cops, no CCTV, no white lines. Just plain tar and shrubs planted evenly next to each other. No one wants to kill me here. No one wants my fire hydrant personality. I am neither thin, nor curvy. I am private. The wind makes the tips of the water pirouette.
Just as the last of my cigarette is inhaled, as if someone is watching, the fountains are turned off.
will my daughter remember things I've told her throughout the course of her life, like I've retained what my mother told me?
It's not a bustling evening, just a few people including my father and i. an old couple, a father and his young son, a young man on his laptop. we just wanted to get out, do something cuz we were so bored. i'm in pjs and socks. playing with the silver chain you gave me, sla. This couch is comfortable, my nails are purplish-black. i scrounge for inspiration and father didn't let me bring his camera. 'it's called art, and i shall indulge in it because i can'. he rolls his eyes.
last year, this time...things were different because it was eons ago.
It was hard to picture him. Outside, a man laughed; she could hear the drone of someone's TV. She looked up at the sky, which opened over the motel, an untroubled, improbable pink. She turned on her side, bent her knees, slipped her hands between them. Inside her, a door shut firmly against any thoughts, and she felt a dizzy, empty happiness at being here, nowhere, alone at last.