I’ve learned to hate the car.
Not because of an accident, or the racing idiots outside the window. Nor the ice that seeks to slip the tires from the street, or the fear of speed.
But because every day, it’s where lies fall from my lips.
It’s where I say I had a good day and try to talk without making my parents angry.
It’s where the arguments happen, louder and louder in an enclosed space in an endless cycle of things that don’t make sense.
Sometimes we turn the music up and sing, laughing at every botched note. Or other times we listen to the radio, about things all around the world and science and everything.
Sometimes we talk and it’s lovely, a back and forth where we both learn.
But every time I sit on pins and needles, watching warily for when the easy calm snaps, and the rumbling beneath our feet gets drowned out by voices. A casual sentence, misplaced intentions.
We all say that the other doesn’t understand, and by doing so make sure that they never will.
It’s where I cry, glaring out the window with heaving breaths and hoping no one actually sees.
Sometimes when I break down they comfort me. Sometimes it isn’t they’re fault- but touch is what truly heals me.
Sometimes when we finally get out I run, knowing the last whispers of the conversation are going to be thrown before I can flee.
Sometimes it’s easy camaraderie, and I don’t want to leave.
Others it’s silent, and we split evenly
But those few times its tears and snatched keys.
It’s where we can’t see each others faces, and hurl words at each other without thinking.
It’s where we speak, unable to be heard except through the broken windows.
It’s where you’re stuck, stifling, waiting for release.
I’ve learned to hate the car, because if I’m not driving then I’m not free.