Poems for the Pained

Backseat Driver

Sometimes I like to think of my body as a car.
I the driver and him the passenger.
On good days when I'm alert and he is quiet I feel like I have control.
I own this car, I fill this tank and check the tyres.
I keep what I need in the trunk.
But,
On bad days when he is louder I sometimes give up.
He leans over and grips the steering wheel tight in his bruised knuckles,
He reaches to the CDs and flings mine out the window.
He breaks red lights and stop signs and cares about nothing,
He cares about no-one.
See he is not me, he does not take care of this car.
He does not need to polish it every second day or bring it to the garage when it doesn't work as it should.
He doesn't own it.
He doesn't own me.
He is a hitchhiker dead set on killing me.
He comes and goes at will with no remorse for his actions,
And he has hurt so many of my friends.
Of my family.
It is difficult to explain to someone that who they spoke to half an hour ago wasn't me.
The car looks the same, the engine sounds the same, but his intentions are not mine.
I am writing this for all the people with passangers acompanying them on this clumsy roadtrip labelled life.
I am writing this to tell you that your car is yours.
It is not theirs.
And sometimes that's all you need to hear.