crash

You say words
that have no meaning
make promises
that are designed
to break

(the passenger door is open
but you're waiting on the wrong side)

I remember the day
you gave up on me
was the day
I gave up on myself

(hands shaking
I'm crying in the parking lot
while you're yelling
and I can't make out
a single word)

I still haven't managed
to find my way back
to who I thought I was

(she took me out
held a metaphorical gun to my head
said drive
and I did

I've never exited a car so fast
than when stopped
and threw up
with all the anxiety burning through me)

You're still making promises
you can't keep

(and I understand)

Because you fear
the chaos
of that wheel in my hands
and how it felt to brush death
with me in the driving seat

(fingertips brushing concrete
your screams crashing over me)

We both know I can't be trusted
and the only thing I hate
more than my anxiety
is your fear

(we can't both be benzo addicts
when I'm standing on the drivers side
secretly waiting for misfortune)

You tell me I have to get back
in that car
that it's just like
riding a bike
I just have to put myself out there
but it's impossible to have faith
when you won't get in the passenger seat
and I refuse to get in the driver's seat alone

(not that I blame you
fear is the drug
I don't know how to conquer)

Sometimes I'm convinced
there's still a bridge with my name on it