On Marion street, in Madison, Missouri, there's a girl who's given up. She's standing on the porch in some pink running shorts, just staring at her boyfriend's truck. State school seems so long ago, and she's eager to forget the stained white walls of those residential halls, and the promises she kept.
Black cherries in a Wal-Mart bag, cigarette butts in the creek out back; tried to quit when she came to Christ, but she couldn't.
Flyover life doesn't feel quite right, so she goes walking through the woods at night. The big sky doesn't bring her any hope, how could it?
She swipes at spiderwebs amidst the morning fog. She can't put her finger on exactly what feels wrong.
She says, "give me a sedative, and throw me away."
All her pictures are blurred, and she can't read the words spelled out on the neon marquee. In her cheer uniform in a thunderstorm, dolled up for the world to see. Maybe she fell for the wrong kind of man; carved their initials in the old bandstand. Paint chips away with years like meaning.
In the nameless Main street bar, there's something understood: every man hangs on his woman like she'd leave him if she could. A great-plains Polyanna, as if she ever was. She smiles at passers-by and never makes a fuss.
Prom night proposals and the like have got her spent. Class rings, and petty things; she never even went.
She says, "give me a sedative, and throw me away."
The world wakes up and she goes to sleep, with the gun she grabbed off the mantelpiece. Blood on the bunting, sweat soaked sheets; balmy august, humid heat.
Give me a sedative, throw me away.
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