Driving Home

I am seventeen and

Driving home from ballet at 10 pm,

Dense pine forests whirring

Past my headlights, darkness

Enveloping the two orbs of light;

Hardly another soul on the road, my

Body feels numb and remote;

My consciousness drifts, barely

Aware that my toes are pressing

The accelerator down a little further

As I wonder what it would be like

To punch it to the floor and

Veer suddenly

Into the

Quiet trees

 

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