02 August 2023

curb st0mp appeal

all of the lights in your car are turned off. Radiohead tinkers softly behind a forced fan. a forced fan, a forced smile, a forced hand on the steering wheel, and you are parallel parked in front of his house, with a little orange orb dancing on your lips. 

it's a man like this, who knows your real name, branches of a family tree, burned. it's a man like this who does more than spit on you when he sees you, when he notices your eyes lingering too closely on a significant emblem ironed onto his jacket sleeve. 

so you follow him home after he uses the self checkout. you know he doesn't spot you now. with a forced smile, you shush the fantasy in your mind, of replanting the trees, making him do it with you. 

instead, you watch the lights go off, one by one, in his little house, ending with his curtainless first floor bedroom and the shaded beacon on a Confederate flag, a delicate tapestry. 

he must know your real name, but not tonight. you roll down the window, put out your cigarette, and turn the headlights back on. 

how to disappear completely.