She wanted to splinter into fragments of a person, specks taking to the wind like confetti from a popped balloon.
She wanted to melt into the floor and creep across the pathways of grout, never to be solid again.
She wanted to drive, far and fast, chasing the sunset until she hit the Pacific.
She wanted to run—past old trees and under a chorus of cicadas—a whiff of hair blowing past, a sound of soles tapping pavement—a blur and then a memory.
She wanted to be on a train going anywhere, anonymous under sunglasses, listening to Fleetwood Mac and watching cat tails and graffiti out a rushing window.
Watching the gap. Standing clear of the closing doors.
Christina Ferraro 