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.