"Swish, slither, swish," go my wipers in the rain.
The rhythm's hypnotic and so is the glare
Of the taillights I'm following through the night air.
I'm writing and driving. I know it's not safe,
But these words will explode if they do not escape.
It's suicide to write like this, I know,
So I wait for red lights and try to drive slow.
I have to use my GPS; don't remember the way home.
The road is filled with cars, but I am all alone.
One eye on the paper, one eye on the road.
Must write this all down before I implode.
Swerve to miss a deer and hit a curb.
Feel like all the thoughts in my head
Are jumbled and absurd.
So what do I think of Valentine's Day?
Chocolates, flowers, and red lingerie.
Whipped with a hanger until my ass bleeds
Because I can't give him the pussy he "needs."
Oodles of candy, the shape of a heart.
Searing, hot pain like I'm tearing apart.
How could I have "done this" to him?
(As if I cause my period to come and go on a whim) . . .
A dirty blue towel thrown down on the bed.
Have to make up for it by giving him head.
Gagging and choking and spewing his cum.
Darkness surrounds me; feel myself go numb.
Nothing about this makes any sense,
But the fear,
I can TASTE,
And the pain is immense.
Flashes of pictures I don't want to see --
A stranger in a movie; this just can't be me!
Shards of a memory, the order askew.
I tell myself it's old, but it sure feels new.
Shuddering, shaking, falling to my knees,
Begging and pleading, but he says, "Pretty please!"
"Recalculating." Guess I made a wrong turn somewhere.
Hopefully my GPS knows how to get me there.
"In point two miles, turn right on route ten,"
Wasn't I just there? Now I'm back again!
Turn left, turn right.
There's nothing familiar in sight.
"In point four miles, turn right."
I'm following ghosts through this wretched, rainy night.
"Arriving at home," says the GPS.
Well, I might have made it home ...
But I'm one hell of a mess.
Sure wish there were a GPS to guide me through
The memories that swirl about,
The pain that sticks like glue.
Wish somebody could tell me where to turn
When my soul's all inside out . . .
When I want to scream and shout,
But cannot make a single sound.
There's nobody around.
Someday maybe I'll learn
To leave well enough alone . . .
Not let crap fall off the "shelves" (in my mind)
Leave those ugly mem'ries to themselves
(I never like what I find)
I must learn to walk away
And leave all that "stuff" for another day . . .
