Through the fence, we slipped, scratched and torn, but the world behind us was nothing— this was ours.
Rubber giants piled high, a kingdom built from wreckage, the smell of earth and metal mixing with the air we claimed. We whispered our plans, wild as the grasshoppers we caught— sting and laughter tangled together as we spun tales of escape.
The owner’s anger didn’t faze us, her shouts just wind against the roar of our hearts. We built our thrones in crooked trees, a couch our crown, leaning like a dream too big to stand. The go kart didn’t run, but we rode it anyway, down the hill that should’ve swallowed us whole, laughing at danger, at the world that couldn’t keep up.
Bruised and broken, we held each other, fighting wars we couldn’t win except here, in the tire club. In this space, we were never less than fierce, our bond woven with the secrets we kept and the mischief we shared. A sacred place— where the world outside couldn’t touch us, where we were fireproof, surviving everything but the burn of our own laughter.