liminal

Gas stations. But the off-brand, run-down, days from bankruptcy kind. They’re perfect. The broken lights make it hard to read the price on anything, forcing you to squint until you involuntarily cry from the effort. Flickering in the bathroom in sync with your now racing heart as you wash your hands reminding yourself the person in the mirror is just you. The creepy guy behind the counter who’s desperately trying to imagine what you’re wearing beneath your jacket making you subconsciously pull it tighter around yourself like a goodbye hug. The smell of cigarette smoke and gasoline mixing in the air and pumping helium into your head, your brain floating up over the tiny shelves and right out the door. Longing to join the stars it bursts on a powerline, lighting up the sky and fulfilling its wish. Your body, a host without its parasite, stumbles about waiting for someone else to take control. Humming along with the crappy pop song barely audible in the background, taking your time in every aisle allowing yourself to just exist despite your fictitious truth. Gas stations. But the off-brand, run-down, days from bankruptcy kind. They’re home.