You'll Never Get Another Ride to Work

I'm tired of driving in straight lines—

back and forth,

same roads,

same silences.

Making Ls across the city,

like I'm folding myself into corners

he’ll never bother to look into.

Gassing up

when I’m running on fumes,

no thank yous,

no offers—

just a quiet expectation

that I’ll keep showing up.

Every mile is a question I already know the answer to.

He gets in.

He gets out.

I stay moving,

circling a life

that never circles back to me.

Never letting go,

just tightening.

Every stoplight,

a chance to scream.

Every green light,

a swallowed one.

I’m tired of holding the wheel

for a passenger

who forgot how to feel.

Ready to explode,

not because I hate him—

but because I forgot

what it feels like

to go somewhere

for myself.