I scream again.
And again.
I don’t know if I’m screaming or singing anymore.
My voice fades into the music,
crashes into the wind,
gets shredded by my own sobs.
I don’t know where I’m going. I just drive.
Mile after mile,
song after song,
I scream myself hoarse
until the city shrinks in the rearview.
Until traffic fades,
the world’s behind me,
and music’s running through my veins.
It’s still not enough,
so I keep going.
Until—
Water.
Gravel crunches under the tires when I pull over.
I kill the engine, and the music dies.
The silence rushes in so fast
it makes my ears ring.
I close my eyes, feel the quiet wrap around me like something maternal, which is hilarious, because nothing maternal has touched me in over a decade.
I step out,
and the cold air slaps the salt from my cheeks,
reminding me I’m still wearing this skin.
I walk until I’m toes-to-the-edge,
staring into water the color of ink.
My reflection looks like she gave up somewhere along the way.
Mascara’s burning my eyes.
