I don't want to be her.
I want to be reading a book on the stoop
on 88th Street with no worries.
Grown from a moment,
this is error star dust,
borrowed from time.
My decisions don't
make a bit of difference
compared to the sunset jaw.
Put some gasoline in me,
and start my scream,
because my heart is driving.
Tomorrow will be burnt,
but it will also be made
of misery and much love.
Haunt me fresh for Friday,
and forgive my sins,
because I have given in.