all dolled up no parking no one to go cell phones screaming and windows down blowing hair and tears driving with the goo goo dolls and thursday and john mayer blasting sixty miles an hour in a thirty zone watching the people in the rear view mirror, watching them watch me fall apart. i wonder what they think is making me hold the towel to my face one elbow on the window one hand on the wheel staring straight and stop signs all the red red face red eyes red.

what's wrong.

i cant communicate. WHAT THE FUCK ISNT WRONG. i can't get the words out that i was punched in the MOTHER FUCKING FACE twice & i hurt for everyone else.

not to beat myself up, that i am really stepping it up, that i dont need to take it hard because i didnt make any mistakes.

& I TAKE IT LIKE ITS A BAD THING.

i cant park the car cant say hello cant eat or think and am just barely breathing gulping air. after 2.5 seconds after seamlessly pulling myself out of the water i am breathing looking straight, hard at him.

IF YOU'RE GOING TO BUILD IT UP, DONT TRY TO BRING IT THE FUCK DOWN.

(little girl cries on the sidelines and i have no fucking sympathy. i know how it feels, but getthefuckoveryourself. because in six years, he finally realizes that you DONT DO SHIT and just slug along and dont take ANY FUCKING RISKS and dont go near your potential and finally calls you on it, dont expect me to feel fucking sorry. you know what. forget it. i've never gotten involved in your shit and i don't plan to start now.)

and if it was anyone else, maybe it'd be different. i'm sick of maybe's and someday's/

its the first time i ever really didnt want to say good game. i still shook hands and spit out the words. i made sure they didnt see my crying.

i'm not going to give you fucking satisfaction


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