Letter To My Past Self

Dissociating while Driving

I'm late, per usual

(I'm anxious,

yet not worried).

Concret lines combine 

to form

shapes, polygons, 

and 

anything you want them to be.

I want to help and mend 

and repair

but

poison lies where kindness

stops despair.

It goes on. 

The routine will sing me

the sweet swallow's song

of my fingerprints, 

and how they

parallel the hearts

of everyone else.

I'm late, per usual.

I won't believe what

the swallow sings,

nor will I 

accept what 

life brings

until I've blinked enough

to dissociate.