isn't terminal—
my silence is
my home.
Though it isn't
my address, it's
the place
where I came from.
And every time
I choose to speak,
that is me
leaving.
That's my soul
sneaking
out the window
after midnight,
breaking curfew
for a joyride
and some
fast food,
and some bracing—
if a little bit
blue
and unwanted
attention—
from a man
whom even
I know
to be a
bad influence.
