You Think It's About a Car
The car is just a vessel expressing
what's been in my head for years.
It's more about the chemicals,
the way I see myself in the mirror.
If you looked a little farther
past the damage you would see
that the damage on the car
is because of the damage done to me.
You only think as far as your car
and the scars I dug into the median,
about your axel, about the parts,
and you asked if I had been distracted,
but you never knew about the scars
on my heart
that started as skin-deep scratches:
Seven years ago, I was in the backseat--
you would drive me home from my games
and tell me every single way
that I had messed up.
And so began a habit of weekend fights
that seeped their way into everyday life.
So when you yelled at me to stop fighting back
the only way I knew how to do that
was to deny myself and reject what I knew,
So I held my tongue, forced myself to believe you--
Even when, three times, you called me a bitch,
even thought I deserved it when I got hit.
Even now, looking at me in the mirror,
I scream your words as I, too, yell at her.
So I think it's appropriate
that it began and it ended inside of your car
because it's almost symbolic and,
though years apart,
I think something within me
knew that the end had to be
in your car.
But this isn't about a car.