glass on the road

if you asked me to write down all my trivial thoughts i remember on a daily basis, there wouldn't be many.

maybe a melody of laughter with friends or

blurry faces brushing by in the hall or

the pastels of the sunset that evening.

perhaps a regret, or two, or three.

perhaps a specific summer morning is the most memorable.

 

if you asked me to write down the details i remember about a specific summer morning, there would be many.

the way my stomach ached from being up so unusually early

the way i liked how my coral shirt matched my shorts

the way the sun knew secrets that i did not yet know.

the way the road was not the smoothest but i turned the steering wheel with ease and the way i glanced over my shoulder to see something else much too close and the way i felt

nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing until i woke up 

with my neck in a brace instead of a bed and

warm blood in my ear and

soft sirens singing around me.

until i reached for my best friend's hand and yearned for some sign of comfort once i saw the destruction;

the simple laws of physics that an object in motion will remain in motion unless acted upon by a force of

regret, anger, guilt, depression, father's tears, distrust, automatic phone calls, airbags.

 

they say PTSD is the worse six months after.

me, being one to reply to every message of sympathy with "i'm fine," tricked my poisoned mind into believing i actually was;

that it happens to everyone; that at least i didn't die; that it probably wasn't my fault; that i was okay, healed.

but i would be lying if i said i didn't hear that stupid fucking car alarm in my sleep

or that i don't stiffen like a rock every time someone speeds down the highway

that i didn't question my religion for months after

that i don't see that flash of white light in my dreams

that i haven't realized somebody pulled me out of that car and i will never, ever know their name.

 

if you asked me to believe that everything happens for a reason, i would believe you.

i just don't yet understand why the universe grabbed my dignity and innocence

with a clenched fist and crumpled it up on a specific summer morning.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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