My hands grip the tender ridges of the steering wheel
Of a car that isn’t mine
I lay my head against the stale warmness of the seat
And inhale the car’s rigid, evergreen scent
That clings to my clothes and swims through my hair
I swerve too far at every turn
And hug the side farthest from you
The swirls of green, red, and yellow
Are monotonous, useless
Flames of light
The street mimics
The every jolt, halt, and bruise
That embodies me
I peer through my window
In utter desperation
Cupping my hands to obstruct
The sun’s vicious yellow entanglements,
I look right and left
At every street corner
In hopes of finding me
, but fear penetrates
the fixed path of my veins
“Where am I? Who am I?”