Let's get in my car and just ride, I would say. Please.
We could drive south, south, south. It's only August and the air is winter again.
I'm afraid of the cold.
I'm too smart for my own good. My own bad. Own salvation. Tonight, I could go the way of my dad. I could snuff up a thumbnail of the stuff and stuff those little plastic bags down deep in the trash (I know all the tricks). Or, better yet, I could drive, drive, drive myself downtown. Stamp the back of my hand, have a drink, and shake it don't break it in any of the four corners to go home to some version of a marriage for a night, to some Johnny-Come-Lately, come early, come what the hell. Done so soon? And divorce in the morning with only the clothes on my back.
I could'a could'a, could'a. These things aren't so difficult, I know. They come in side steps taken with sideways glances, narrated in the newscaster voice behind my eyes saying, "This wont change me. This wont change me.
"In other news today, Angela gave in and said, "To hell with it all."
But then, I ask, what the fuck are all the rehab centres for? Could'a, should'a, would'a. You can never go back, kiddo. And if the struggle for the good asks, "What's the point?" then so does the struggle for the bad. It'll still be the same old, same old, but with broken eyes and dissolved cartilage.
So then, dearest friend, dear God, the question tonight is when does being saved begin to feel like some sort of salvation?
Let's drive.
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5 comments:
I've been reading and reading and reading. But not saying much.
I just keep sending you my heart instead.
I like the title. So true.
ah, alex. i'm sorry.
shan, i hope i tell you this tomorrow, too, but, you make me feel very safe. thank you.
deanna, that's funny. the title, like almost all of my titles, is from a song - black lexus, by joseph arthur. it's good, but it makes me feel sorry for myself. sigh.
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