Have you ever driven your car—to the middle of nowhere, just
to see how lonely you could feel with your knuckles white
against the steering wheel? You don’t even think about it, you
only worry about how fast you’re going, and that even though
you’re going 80, you still can’t help but feel that
the world is
spinning
slower
than it
should.

It’s okay, you know, to feel like your lungs can’t find
the air you desire, or if your eyes sting back with hate, or
sometimes, as often as we wish, with love. It’s completely
fine to want to scream until you can’t remember what silence is.

It’s deafening.

Maybe you’ve never known the feeling of someone else
piecing out your every being, or telling your secrets until
you're positive there’s nothing left to hide. Maybe you’ve
never heard another person cry like a poisonous drain, like
seeing someone’s heart break right in front of you.

About an hour and a half away from here, so far from here, I
fell in love with the toxic scent of being alive. An hour and
thirty f***ing minutes from here, I fell in love with the
roughness of clenched fists, and the wind blowing against
my face like I never even stood a chance, like the world
wasn’t supposed to be spinning faster or slower, like
the world wasn’t even supposed to be spinning
at all.