With my fingers painted red, I feel as though I am guilty of murder.

I’ve got to get out of here.
I’ve got to get away.

Get me on a jetplane and take me high above the clouds. To be surrounded by white, I feel as though I am born anew. Washed free of all my sins, all of my crimes, all of those broken hearts I’ve torn out and left behind.

I know the sun exists, but I cannot see it during my getaway. I can’t feel it brace me with its heat. For a moment I can forget it was ever there at all, which is exactly how I want everyone’s thoughts of me to fade away.

California, where dreams come true. Beauty can be seen everywhere- but for a price. California, where your soul is turned into dust. Who was I before I set foot on that sacred land? I wouldn’t be able to tell you. Who was I when I stepped foot on this plane and decided to get away? I wouldn’t want to tell you.

People tend to say that they live with no regrets. I think what they mean to say is when they feel that sting of regretfulness coming on, they turn around and run like hell in the other direction. I’m not running, nor walking, I am gliding on air.

Once this plane lands, I will be born anew. All these crimes I’ve committed will be cleaned from my plate. When people ask me where I come from, I’ll simply tell them, “Nowhere.” Though I will want to tell them the same answer when they ask me where I am going, I’ll tell them instead, that I am trying to figure it out.

That’s all a disaster of a woman can do; try to figure it out. Whatever it happens to be.