Poem.
My grandpa fixes cars, old ones and new ones.
I used to stare in awe, on how every car was
fixed to be like it always newly made and good.
I loved how our love was like a car driven at night.
It was the nice breeze, that came out of your mouth
that hit my neck. Your smile was like a million dollar
ticket, to happiness. How my arms struggle to wrap
around your torso, or how my hands begin to sweat
as i hold your hand, because I am very nervous.
Those kisses against my lips feels like my heart
beating my chest inside like a drum, bang bang.
Reccently, I was prescribed as depressed.
No one pays attention to those old cars, no one
usually wants to fix those old cars. I was one of those
old cars. Depressed I would, put a smile on my
face. So, they would pay attention to me. A car
that's slowly falling apart, how do you tell people,
it feels like depression is my roommate? That,
every day, is just going to be a struggle to fix myself.
That I was never an expert on fixing myself, or a car.
Knowing my love one, might never understand.
Might understand, that I feel and think that,
they need better. Every day, is the same; I am
at the brink of crying to tell my love one, don't leave me.
I am like an old car, fixable or unfixable. He leaves,
as I drive to push him away. He did walk away, I
still am the little girl who stares at awe at those cars
being fixed. To never know, I am going to be like those cars.
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