Anxiety’s driving,
on the wheel, speeding,
asking me every five minutes
if the world’s mad at me,
or if I left the stove on,
or if my heart’s still beating right.
He never lets the music play too loud,
but somehow it does.
Depression’s in the backseat,
window down,
letting the cold hit his face
like he’s trying to feel something.
He keeps reminding me
we could’ve stayed home
and been sad for free.
Love’s riding shotgun,
feet on the dash,
acting like she owns the place.
She speaks in songs,
half-promises,
what ifs that sound like lullabies
until they don’t.
She always leaves the door cracked
so Hope can get in
and fuck up the mood.
Overthinking’s in the middle,
seatbelt twisted,
adjusting it every three seconds
like the air’s too heavy.
Keeps asking
if I feel okay,
if I said the wrong thing,
if my presence is welcomed,
And me?
I’m squeezed in between all of them,
eating myself alive
in small bites,
pretending the whole time
that this is what normal people do
when they “go out.”
We pull up to nowhere in particular,
sit in the car
for way too long
like it’s a ritual.
Nobody gets out first.
We just breathe,
like we’re practicing
how to stay here
without falling apart.
Yes, Mom,
don’t wait up.
I’m out with my friends.
They brought everything
to the table:
anxiety, depression,
love, overthinking, hope, and me.
Tired,
trying,
and hoping the bill
isn’t too big
by the end of the night.
