that Greyhound's in the back of my mind...
in thirty-one hours
and fifteen minutes
i could be
in New York City, singing for nickels
and looking for a place to sleep.
it's a balmy forty degrees there
where no one knows my name
just another face
in a city of 8.3 million more:
no questions asked
no answers given
i could maybe
forget all about you,
there.
Author notes
except i know it wouldn't work, and i'd end up just another statistic about small and confused girls of indeterminate ancestry winding up brutally murdered.
it /sucks/ being realistic, sometimes.
Comments
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I'll never understand the appeal.
I'm glad to see you're still writing though. I like it. ^.^
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....sorry love. =/
<3
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