in my head, i am on a plane

In my head, I am on a plane.  Outside, nothing in human history has ever looked the way the clouds do.  I am being taken away from the life I know, and I do not grieve that fact because I want to be taken away, because there is nothing in what I am leaving behind that I want anymore.

(I leave behind his smile and the shade of his eyes.  I leave behind her squealing laugh, the sound of his in unison.)

In my head a taxi is driving me from the airport to someplace, a place I have never seen but which I will call home–for two months or twelve, for eight weeks or eighteen–and fill with the bits of myself that I have not yet lost in the time before this great escape.  The mirror there–because all houses should have a mirror–will hold the face of a girl I do not know, but will yet meet.

(For the first time in a long time, she will not look ugly to me.)

In my head, I hear the roar of unfamiliar cars, the sound of voices piercing the night air in a language I may not, as yet, speak, but will in time come to understand.  Everything is different here, terrifying and unfamiliar, and I embrace the fear because it crowds out the rest of what I used to feel.  There is no room for that here, not in the corners of a brand new world.

(And I do not feel guilty when she calls and I do not answer, because there is no room for her there too.)

In my head I have what I want: the ability to start over in a place where no one knows who I was, and can only know what I will be.  I now possess the ability to rewrite history, and to make it as if everything that had happened before no longer exists.  So long as I am here, this place and who I am in this place is all that is real.  That girl who woke up on a marble floor with a broken glass-heart, she is a stranger.

(I am a stranger, and I meet myself)

In my head, I am on a plane.

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