My sky changed from pink to dark blue as the parking lot thinned out. People leaving; color draining as I sat there and I don't know if the headache was from the heat or a side affect of frustration and regret. Warning lights flashed red, to match my nails and match my eyes. Dry to the bone. Saline would have been a treat. When I turned off my only release valve, all the other pipes dried out.

I feathered through a lie or two. Induce the labor of guilt; dilate empathy. But I'm no longer a believable actress. My fairy tales have all been carved in order to keep the secret alive; how could I silver tounge the very one I prevaricate to protect? I could try, I mused, to cry those incredulous plots, but would a broken consiouce provide anything other than vicious satisfaction?

I let my arms collapse down and over, pleated and pleading to be folded cleanly across wristes.The bricks beneath head snagged hair completely ignored. And as the bricks began to rumble with thier oncoming assault, the only source of protection remained still. Who was I trying to get back at? What would destruction accomplish? Who was I hurting other than myself? Logic is a dull flashlight against summer self-pitty.

The momentum brought the stirrings of fall through the tracks and grabbed my hair, pulling and twisting. I closed my eyes and pretened to smile as the growl of steel agaisn't steel became piecring and popping. The sheilds remained at my side, still and calm. Karenina would scoff at my act; what's a little ringing to complete silence? Screaming and yelling of iron charged in through crumbling microphones, expanding to crack connecting wires. Like pop rocks in my head, the shriek of the whistle burst capilaries. Pop. Pop. Pop. Grinding teeth to keep the simper from grimacing; digging nails into sunburned legs to stop a rescue attempt.

And just as the train crashed into the background so suddenly, it was gone. Moving along to another city, another girl next to another set of tracks. The lights stopped blinking and the people began moving again. Hands attached to familiar arms investigated. Street lights making everything orange couldn't dilute the stain running down the knuckle. Red like the warning lights. Red like my nails. And red like the eyes that just wanted to cry. Carmine came from a drum, beaten at close range.

The soundtrack became muffled; thoughts became focused. An apology would be a piece of tape to hold the Titanic together. And since when was it my fault? When did I start compromising the only things I ever promised myself? A phone call would be foolish. I am a fool and dialing the number was my only want. Still, I staired at the screen.  "Should haves" attacked by the thousands. The headache began pulsing to match the alarmed Heart's beat. One can get seasick on solid ground when the mind starts swimming. Even as the phone rang, muffled from purse and train, I hoped.

As my father drove me home, city lights were stars as large as the hole in my stomach and the holes in sound canals. There are no wins. There is only this; I sit on my hands so I can't dial the number. And all I want to do is hear your voice. Pride has no part, only hurt and yearning dance in this ballet. And I wonder who will make the first turn around, pistels raised. Since when did this become a duel?