Write It on a Postcard

I used to roll in and be happy at the blanket that was in front of me and now, I see it's covered with layers of failure and hollow eyes. This is not the kind of place to be, this is the kind of place to get the fuck away from. I forgot the lessons that I learned half a lifetime ago. Every time I get away, I can feel the silly putty like ectoplasm hands grasping me dragging me back to oxycotin and swingers clubs and lies and fake families and ghost haunted houses. I hate driving past the houses of dead friends and never were lovers and fields of rotting cars. Someday, I'm just gonna set out in a direction of no one's choosing and drive until I run out of gas, set my car on fire and escape into the night.

Photo - S
Words - S