ᡣ𐭩
I have run from small towns
where the gas station stays lit all night
and moths die in the pop machines.
Bedrooms with wet carpets,
men leaning against my screen door.
Their hands are empty.
Mine are already packed.
Lovers press the future
against the roof of my mouth
“We are short lived,” they say.
I say thank you, and run.
The parking lot has glitter
someone’s dog barked itself hoarse.
The motel has been shut down.
I burned my clothes in a metal drum
behind the building.
The smoke stayed low to the ground,
it didn’t want to be seen leaving, either.
The trees outside
thrash in the black glass
like they knew my real name.
s.g
xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
The Official Poetry Collection of WSS
WhatSheridanSaid.com/Poetry
