my fingers are tapping on the steering wheel to the beat of the music softly playing on the car radio. with the window rolled half way down, a cigarette burning at my lips and the wind brushing through my tousled hair, i speed up more, leaving behind a path filled with regrets and mistakes.
the trees bathed in moonlight flash by, as fast gone as they had appeared. i speed up again and inhale deeply, allowing air to fill my lungs once more before pushing down the gas pedal completely.
i close my eyes.
oh, how morbidly soothing it is to be assured of an instant death.
YOU ARE READING
𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐒𝐀
Poetryrigor samsa: n. a kind of psychological exoskeleton that can protect you from pain and contain your anxieties, but always ends up cracking under pressure or hollowed out by time-and will keep growing back again and again, until you develop a more so...
