Her Day

She bit her black nails
while she daydreamed
of old losers
and the soreness
she’d been searching for
forever.

She bought her gray hound
ticket cash and brought
her only bag of clothes
out where the luggage goes.

Her greatest role models were arsonists
from the outskirts of Nevada,
but she had outgrown all those
silly dreams for quiet ones.

She ran away from home after her drunk mom
killed her cat and left it bleeding
in the backyard by the swing set.

She never wore anything under her
turtle necks and crossed
the country many times because of it.

It became a bit too easy
so she started forking over cash
since there was always more
in her backpack by the .38

When she did her make up
in hotel mirrors
she calculated the years left
she could fool the world
before it smartened up to her.

Though, there was never
any proof of it,
on her birthday she would
hold her hand over the candles
until it burned.

As she got older there was more pain
but enough cake to make up for it,
and everyone still sang for her,
but it sounded all distorted
like an old record being played
from rooms away.

It was her day
so she could pretty much
do anything.