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

will recognize

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

behind

me.

One of them comes up t me and asks me where I’m going and

I tell her

and

she tells me

that’s a long way.

I say

“Is it?”

I don’t know where I am.

I keep walking when they turn off and

I am alone

and it is dark

and

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

too

determined.

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

is

the girl that

“looks kind of familiar”

and

that’s okay

with me.

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