Thinking about heading west again.
Except now it’s real. Maybe a basement
apartment in the suburbs. Or just somebody’s old bedroom.
My mom says I need to slow down. Rest.
She knows I’ve been sick for months.
But then I would have to start thinking again.
On the way to her house, this morning,
there were two pickup trucks parked by the train tracks.
The sky hurt to look at - what else is new.
Something hurts inside too – a place I can’t pinpoint.
I want to drive and listen to sweet music.
But should I leave when I came so close to losing you?
I don’t want to be half a world away
if the ground breaks. You think the desert
sounds good for me – it does, it does.
It’s so hard to tell when you’re happy for me.
We have the same sad eyes, the same predisposition
for addiction – same blood, too thick. That side
of my family reads like a warning label.
The other side – less clear – I spent a lot of time
with family last week. Finally I piece together
that maybe my mom is the black sheep. Not
in the traditional sense – but a runaway, scared.
I’m scared too. Not of the same things, always.
I don’t mind being alone at the train station.
My dad says he wanted to tell me in person –
it’s hard to believe now. He still doesn’t want
to talk about it. So I tell him I’m moving –
but it’s the least excited I’ve been.
Maybe I should take the guest bedroom
and just call it quits.