car.

please don’t get in my car.
i’m behind the wheel, foot on the gas
but the signs all blur
the red lights look green
as the brakes give out .

please don’t get in my car.
i don’t know how to drive
i passed the test once upon a time
before it crashed and burned.

please don’t get in my car.
i have scars from the wreck
i’m a nervous anxious mess
and i don’t know if i can promise safety.

please don’t get in my car.
maybe if i was different
if the roads weren’t beaten 
and the route wasn’t so messy
but i can’t promise a destination 
besides a crash.

please don’t get in my car.
i don’t know how to love 
without wrecking it.
 

Cate

VT

18 years old

More by Cate

  • trap

    my brother steps around broken glass, sneakers soft on the wood.
    the pastor’s words are soft, sugarcoated. 
    i long to feel the golden rays of summer once more.
    suffocating, is the leather string around my neck.
  • Lavender

    I let the lavender plant die.

    It wilted,
    then it dried
    and it withered,
    then it died.

    I got sick of my clothes smelling like
    your perfume,
    wine red satin sheets that remind
    me of your shampoo.
  • silent.

    glossy blue bubbles, golden rays shine through the window.
    i reach my fingers out, your soccer hoodie is pulled
    up past my knuckles, resting over chipped orange nail polish.
    wine red satin sheets, my phone is on my nightstand.