I know what it’s like
to be the girl on the milk carton.
I know what it’s like to be the
where are you?
where is she?
is she lost, is she gone, for how long?
Where am I?
I… I don’t know, I am
the scraped feet, the bloodied fingers,
I am the shining reflection on tin cans and
I am the shuffling that wakes the
men on the side of the road with
a nod of their head, a gruff response
oh I am the person that you
the morning after
on the news.
You think to yourself
“that makes me special”
and you tell your frineds
oh, you tell them with a call, quite gleefully
that you saw that girl, on the television
you saw her, you’re sure
and you saw her before
she got all bloodied
you could have done something, you think
but you didn’t.
I know what it’s like to be the girl
on the milk carton.
I walk behind others, they trip and stumble.
I think I do too, but I don’t know
because there is no one
One of them comes up t me and asks me where I’m going and
I tell her
she tells me
that’s a long way.
I don’t know where I am.
I keep walking when they turn off and
I am alone
and it is dark
this is where
the sidewalk ends.
I clip my foot on some blackberry bushes.
I hear something rattle in the bushes.
I want to run but I am
A light comes off in the distance and
I see my chance
I see my getaway.
But in the morning all they’ll know me as
the girl that
“looks kind of familiar”