Not going home

The rage and sorrow fade
with every lash of my hair
on the deserted freeway.

Finally, unconstrained
the strands rise to the sky
defiant of the road ahead.

In the old convertible car,
half-deafened by the roaring wind
I scream at the top of my lungs:

I would love it if you noticed
that I'm not going home.

I push the pedal to the floor
feeling exhilarated,
as I shed this tattered skin.

Nowhere to go,
no one to become,
but to sing, sing, sing.

I am no one's daughter,
no one's lover,
just the one who flies,
light, light, light.

If such a thing as home exists
I would want to roll the dice
for a chance to take the whole ride.

Your smile on my mind
a pumping blaze in the heart,
while I drive, drive, drive.