I want to run away from here

Traces

By Elizabeth Board

I want to run away from here. Trailing dust in a 1967 Ford Mustang and blowing smoke from rich red lips. I want to stay in motel rooms all over the country; shooting morphine and talking about life. I want your hands on my shoulders as we lay on bad 80's coverlets staring at stucco ceilings and speaking in opiate induced confusion. I want to feel connected and in love; if only for the moment. I want to bathe in the air of our room that would stink of that thick stale cigarette smoke. I want to watch the sun come up while sipping cheap red wine and sitting wrapped in a blanket, buried in your arms and suspended in a balcony overlooking an abandoned pool. I want to toss and turn in cocaine-sleep knowing that if I give up on closed eyes and fractured dreams you'll be there to talk to. I want to wear frilly dresses in every color and rob convenience stores with pearls around my neck. I want red lips, white nails and Marilyn Monroe hair in pale pink. My eyes will always be blackened with kohl and sleep deprivation. I want to remember the days when everything was okay and your kiss meant 'I love you,' without ever saying it. I want to turn you into an addict; scarffing down pills and powders with just as much voracity as me. I want your warmth next to me. I want to be willing to sleep nights again. Your embrace was the best rest I've ever had.

If we ran away I'd sit cutting out paper dolls and tracing their outlines on old news paper clippings about dead stars. We'd draw tracks on every single one with ballpoint pens. We'd have hollow music playing in the background and cut lines on old mirrors with cigarettes dangling precariously from lips smeared with kisses. We'd paint pictures on each other's bodies with razor blades and lick the blood away. I'd take out hypodermic syringes with removable tops and line your ribs with twenty gauge needles. Blood would speckle the bed spread and cooked spoon-fulls of smack would make the pain go away. 'I trust you enough to hurt me,' I'd say and kiss your check depositing a handful of sharp objects into your fist.

Each night would be the start of our days as we'd hunt the streets in search of that next big score. Crack dens, laden with deceit and failed dreams, are already our biggest hang-outs. It's like being a kid in a candy store when you have a wallet full of twenties and pills of every prowess spread in front of you. You know so little but I'll teach what color will make it all okay. A vodka bottle would be permanently attached to my finger tips in all these late night runs. From child to drug chugging thug and back again; I'd flow.

Had we run away together we'd be flying down the highway with California in our sites ignoring the dingy towns for those big city lights. Cigarettes would hang limply from my pouty smirk as we'd speed along back roads and interstates. I'd wrap my little hands along the inside of your thighs and we'd pull over along stretches of highway to make sweaty love in the backseat of your car. Your hands on the small of my back pulling my hips closer to you in desperate passion. The windows fogging up with our breath and my nails digging into your back. Afterwards we'd drop acid and watch the colors play as we tore the road apart. We'd inhale true love and exhale nicotine smoke, our lips holding wrestling matches at stop lights.

When we got tired of driving we'd pull over and run naked through fields tasting the sweet country air on our bare flesh. The long grass would whip at our ankles and I'd tackle you to the ground, pinning you to the soft dirt and we'd roll about on it in lovers' bliss til 'Hey you, get out of here,' scared us off and we'd run up hill and back to the safety of the car. We'd skinny dip in lakes and taste the dirty water in our noses when we accidently inhaled. When swimming lost it's charm we'd retire to the cattails to smoke a bowl or two and laugh at the fish that would try so desperately to escape our shadowy hands. If I caught one in the palm of my hand it's twitching fins would make me giggle in girlish amusement. You'd smile at my silver laughter.

One day I'd cook up and tie off in a rest stop bathroom. I'd return to the car collapsing back into that bliss of a dream-state life. You'd lean in and kiss my forehead marveling at my pinprick pupils and the drop of blood welling up in the crook of my arm. While you lick that gem away you'd say, 'You're fucking gorgeous,' ... and I'd believe you. I'll believe that we'll be in love forever and that when we get clean we'll have children and when we get clean we'll have a house and when we get clean we'll have an enviable life. Of course we're never going to get clean and even in their moments of down time when we can find no smack we never once want to give up the love we have for each other. The love that was created by an off white powder cooked up and slammed gently into begging veins.

We would come across a Suboxone prescription from a time before when I'd wanted to quit, a time before I'd met you to share my misery. This gave us a new idea, a new hobby of purposely over dosing and then bringing each other back with the Narcon that incubated in the center of those pills. Nothing gets you closer than going to edge of death together and coming back. We'd go to those pearly gates, flick the big fucker off and come straight back waking up next to each other and laughing the whole time.

I plan on wearing your oversized sweaters; being lost in the wool would feel fabulous. We can speed down the highways passing signs that say things like '16 miles til…' and 'Exit for…ahead'. I can be the most beautiful accessory bedded down next to you in the leather seats. I'll smoke trashy cigarettes and talk about sex and drugs with a dirty mouth and foul fantasies. We'll pass out at rest stops when we run out of blow and listen to Elliott Smith as we fade into sleep. You'll wrap your arms tight around me and lean your lips close to my ear, 'Don't go down, stay with me, baby, stay,' is all you'd say and then kiss my forehead in that way that you always do. I'd wear fur coats and forget that we'd have had sex, repeatedly. You'd remind me, kiss my cheek, but never correct me. Let me believe what I want; let me fantasize that you'd have said you loved me. Maybe at the end of it all we'd be laying in the middle of the road, lying in our own chalked out lines waiting for the body bags.