Anywhere But Here

Youre really tired of all of my excuses.
Im passive, I hide, I am standing on the edge.

I stare at you with my glazed eyes,
spitting all the gibberish from between my lips.
You tell me that all of my plastic ideals are my demise
and that I allow him to live for me.
I allow all of their hearts to beat for me.

I say that everything is normal and that everything is fine.
You tell me you never believe me, and that I always lie.

And you tell me that I need to run.

So I do.

Out my door and down the stairs.
It would be nice if my mother identified herself.
It would be nice if I could recognize her.

I wish for her to hold me in her arms and stroke my hair.
I wish for things to be like they used to.
I want her to wipe my tears and tell me I am still a little girl,
and that I am allowed to be a child.

Instead she takes my hand and leads me to the stairs,
tells me I am selfish and disobedient.
I have now upset him,
and I shall pay the price.



My bruised hipbones press against his grainy palms as he pressures, no pushes, no he eases me onto the bed. I guess using that word accompanied by the descriptive 'gently' could make it seem better to an untrained eye, but to the rest, they can see it is really not better at all.

He smells spicy, like burnt vanilla and nutmeg.
It reminds me of the beaches in the south of France.
It reminds me of crickets rubbing their wings together on the screen of my window in Paris.
It reminds me of the bearded man selling watermelon on the beach, and the train traveling 515.3 km/hr across the European countryside.
I want to tell him all of this, but I am afraid of upsetting him.
Afraid of talking.
And he, being American and never stepping foot outside the boarders, wouldnt want to hear about it anyway.

He just pushes, pulls and tugs.
I cry, push, pull and tug.
My body is tired.
I disappear.
I get away.
I just close my eyes,
I know what to do
I just close my eyes
0..1..2..
2...3...4...
Infinity is a number.
I must find it.

One day I will breathe fresh air.