Hurdle

I was running, feet slapping on hot pavement.

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere,

where addicts go to die in peace.

There was a trifle of complacency,

the public rife with the foulest of all its kind.

The tri-state area, the place of pealing skin and melting minds.

I ran, ran long till the pavement went cold,

till the nineteenth hour of circular wheels hit snowed roads.

And suddenly, I wasn't hurdling myself into the future,

counting birthdays like a prisoner counts days in confinement.

Thirteen candles unlucky.

Sixteen candles, two too late.

Nearly nineteen, my fear long turned hate.

And then gone.

Gone like the wish blown out, so long ago.

Genies were wished on like

candles blown breath upon.

A decade shot on by,

birthdays no longer counted like wishes on stars for sweet good byes.

Nearly thirty, forgetting what birthdays felt like.

Like confessions in a booth, of dark wishes dreamed upon.

Gods, birthdays aren't what I wish upon.

Days. Days are what I wish upon. Dream up on.

Fucking birthdays were my count down.

The count to my death or rebirth,

the time to my final hour or eternal escape.

Happy birthday, motherfucker.

I guess I lived for eternity, like I never thought.