they tell me I worry too much,
that my heart will skip and shrivel too early,
that I'm losing sleep and sanity
and I worry they are right
my arms float out in front of me,
dead as sunken ships
barnacles sucking blood from my wooden body
stiff and rotting, anxious even in death
about the sponges and the sea they soak in--
Sometimes I drive and I think about driving past the place I'm going. Two miles after your house and I'd be a mile closer to the interstate, within reach of any state on the east coast. I could drive until any exit, even- or odd-numbered, or I could drive until I reached the end of the road.
But I hate pumping gas.
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