I've been watching the days and years slip past me
Like scenery.
Pretty faces, unknowable in the white of headlights,
Flying past like buildings on the side of a freeway.
The kind I'll never see the inside of
Because I'll never be back here.
And in the backseat is a stranger.
His undreaming eyes are cold and canceled
In the headlights flying past,
As dead and black as an insect's eyes.
He has a name I'll never know.
A name that's silent when pronounced correctly.
*
Who am I?
My voice is loud echoing back at me,
Hands bracing against the car.
Who am I?
And then I'm throwing up,
All blood and intestines in the passing light
Of cars.
And the back door opens.
Come closer.
Show me your insides, he says.
No comments:
Post a Comment