when things go so bad
that the only things left
is to either do what
your grandfather did
and fail at leaving
this place
by sending a bullet
in your brain
or find some place 
that you can pretend 
is home until things 
stop making your insides
vaporizing in your stomach
and condesning as mercury 
seeping in the brain

your aunt’s white carpeted 
living room
with a wooden bowl of chips
that she wouldn’t even let
her husband eat
watching G.I. Joe

or

among your cousin’s white pines
laying in the branches aching
from the things she did to you
letting the wind lull you to sleep

or 

a couch in the third floor of 
the library facing a large window
with dark green trees and a muted
golden sun

or

in thier arms deep in the night
covered in sweat listening 
to them breathe not remembering
who or where you are

or 

in a car with the windows down
with honey suckle on your lips
mixed with bourbon and heat
water out there in the dark 
lapping against the shore

or

scattered across the galaxy 
stretched so thin that the warmth
from that massive explosion 
still vibrating in our atoms

anything
because it’ll be better
than where you were forged
by violence and rape
on a road
where people called themselves
good folk