i drove west
until gas ran out &
the sky turned orange like it knew something
i didn’t —
the desert coughed up
ghost motels,
and i slept
with the windows down
because loneliness was warmer than the air.

i left on a tuesday because mondays felt too cinematic.
threw a bag in the backseat —  
socks, notebook, polaroid of no one
and drove until the road forgot how to spell my name.
some towns didn’t even have exits,
just rusted signs and dust thick enough to bury a prayer.

i slept in the arms of cities
with no names,
listened to taxis like lullabies
while the moon
pushed its hips against my window.

i saw the flag hang limp in the sweat-burned air
the president mumbled through a teleprompter
while the rich ******* clinked their rosé glasses
and the homeless guy outside CVS whispered “revolution.”

i walked through a walmart cathedral of neon death
fluorescent lights buzzed like dying bees.
a woman cried in the diaper aisle,
not enough left on the EBT
and the checkout kid had eyes like war.

everyone’s got a gun now or wants one.
fear is sold in bulk, 2-for-1.
but joy?
joy costs everything you got
plus shipping.

billboards scream GOD LOVES YOU
but only if you vote the right way
& keep your ****** polite
& don’t kneel too long
unless it’s in church or to capitalism.

trump’s face still floats like a blimp in the sky
bloated with lies, smiling like rot
and no one’s coming to save us.
they’re too busy selling hats,
too busy building walls out of fear

america, you jazz-blasted ghost,
you cigarette-burned lover of a dream.
i still drive your highways like rosary beads
but now they lead to nowhere;
just strip malls, gun shops, & graves.

i’m a woman born where the hills roll like old records,
where the dirt’s thick with stories and the air tastes like whiskey and wildflowers.

the mountains bleed black tar, poison dripping into creek beds,
and the government’s promises stink like rotting meat in a locked fridge.
but the women, ******* — they keep moving.
sideways, under, through the cracks in the system.

they’re not saints or martyrs — just survivors with sharp teeth,
ready to bite through the *******,
ready to carve out their own **** place
in the raw, relentless hills they call home.

i walk into the clinic
like it’s a gas station off Route 66,
neon buzzing, hearts tired.
my body full of roadmaps & warning signs —
but no one reads the signs,
no one hears the engine knock.
they call it stress, call it nerves, call it nothing,
but I’ve been breaking down in slow motion since the Eisenhower years.

i slept in the arms of cities
with no names,
listened to taxis like lullabies
while the moon
pushed its hips against my window.