i had that nightmare again. the one with the brake lights, the wet road, the vice grip of that seatbelt against my shoulder.
sometimes i think these memories don't belong to me, and that you never really existed. that you are just a mid-range tombstone in september soil, a relic of a relic amid world war II vets and hypoxic infants. that i am just a girl with bruised knees, bleeding lips, and too many words in my mouth. and this could just be a funnel for my anger, for my mistakes, for a heartbreak worn like a badge of honor and polished to a blinding shine.
and you could be a collection of bones compact beneath earth, a collector's item for archaeologists, a boy who never really belonged to me at all.