Home to the Pain

If these windows could talk, they’d tell you the pain they’ve seen. If the speakers could talk, they’d tell you how tired they were to play the same set of songs on repeat to bandage my heart back together.

If the sun roof could explain to you every way I’ve ever looked up and out of it on long, dark nights, you’d sit there in complete disbelief that one person could experience so much pain in one seat. Within these four doors more sadness has been expressed than happiness that’s what makes the stories it holds so sad.

Night after night as I drove home at 11 o’clock at night once my shift had ended, I’d put on Lewis Capaldi’s music and scream each word like I was trying to explain the pain. The tears would fall so hard and fast sometimes I’d be on the highway and the tears would be so present I couldn’t see four feet in front of me and I had to rely on my memory to take me home.

Each night was a different pain, each night was different tears towards one of the bad things falling down on me. Some nights, I’d pull over and sit there, staring at the lake beside me. Other nights I’d get out and stand at the water's edge and go off like I was a rapper, rapping to the people before me.

If my headlights could explain the pain in each word, in each faint scream, you’d be left not understanding why. I wondering the same thing I asked why, because even when I was crying I still didn’t understand why pathetic tears fell from my broken eyes.

The tears would fall upon my sweater sleeves as I slouched into my seat. The leather seat gave me more hugs and loving than the people who sat next to me.

To me, it’s not just a car, it’s my escape room. This car is where I go when everything is falling apart. Getting in it puts the pieces back together, teaching me new ways to think and new ways to love. To me, it’s not just a car, it’s a home.

My car isn’t a home to me, it’s a home to the pain and it’s a home to my memories. If those windows could explain how much pain they’ve witnessed, you’d think I was mentally unstable.

Gosh, maybe I am.