Drive

I miss home and I miss you and me.

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1. Drive

I can’t drive, but I’ve always loved being in cars.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt more comfortable than I did in your passenger’s seat back home.

But things are different now.

Everything is too far away.

Including you and him and him and him and her and him.

Here, it’s just me. There is no ‘us’. There’s me. And You.

 

I used to love to sing, but here it doesn’t feel right anymore. It all feels too cold; too cold for words, too cold for music, too cold to get out of bed or out of the house or out of the street, this whole neighbourhood. At home, I felt warm, but here it’s too cold.

 

At home, I didn’t know anyone and that was how I liked it. I liked being lonely, at home it was a choice. Not anymore. I knew how the roads worked and I knew how the people worked. I knew where the park was, how long it took to get to school, I knew the opening hours of the corner shop, the closing hours of the streetlights and the neighbours’ houses. I loved that park, I loved to cry at that park and scream and sing and walk and run. But it’s not there anymore, because I can’t drive, and you betrayed me.

 

You betrayed me, because out here I can see myself as I am. I can see how crazy I am and I can’t hide it anymore. I can’t pretend anymore and I’m cracking and I know you can see it. I know you can see it because I’m trying so hard to make you. I’m crying in my left eye but you’re always on my right. I’m leaking through my nose, but you can only see my mouth. I’m fractured, I’m shattered and I can’t pretend anymore.  

 

But it seems like you can. Because you don’t see me cry anymore, you can’t hear me scream, even when I’m right in front of you and I’m pulling my hair, and clamping my lashes, and my heart is dripping in chunks in the words that I’m sobbing. But, in the end, it doesn’t really matter, does it? Because you can’t cure my crazy. And I guess you’ve made your peace with that, maybe one day I will too.

 

Maybe one day my eyes won’t burn and I’ll be able to pick the needles out of my irises, maybe I’ll learn to drive and I’ll get out of here and the axe in my chest will disappear. Maybe I’ll drive, away from you, away from here and away from home. Because I don’t know those streets anymore and I don’t know how to pass by and let it pass without my soul clenching and my thoughts throbbing. Because I can’t lie anymore. I always thought that house was my crazy, that once I left I’d be normal and happy and I wouldn’t feel so alone. But the house wasn’t my crazy, I was your crazy and I’m sorry I slipped into the keep pile instead of the skip. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

 

I’m sorry I’m not enough. I’m sorry I’m too much. I’m sorry.

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