to be honest
i didn't really know
what i wanted to write
a poem about &
i don't have
the patience for
a sonnet or 
some carefully executed
series of quatrains--
i like to write
like a spilled
bowl of cheerios--
like a smudged 
window--
like a handful of
bird seed--
i don't
want to peel
off band aides
today & write
about how 
my eating disorder
feels like a damp 
card board box 
i live in or
how the scars on
my forearms
stopped healing or
wanting
wanting
wanting
for people
to see me as
the boy i am--
no i want
to write about 
my car not
starting this morning
& how
i thought
if i kept
turning the key
that it would awaken
something
inside the engine--
some sort of final
spark & 
the car would 
sputter & shiver
& we would stumble
out
of the driveway
as we always do--
i got out to look
at her--
tears turning
to icicles
on her chin--
i kept twisting
& twisting--
hands turning
statue because i'm
too stubborn
to wear any damn 
gloves--
with each forced
turn of the key
she choked
less & less
until the dashboard
was dark & 
i was there gripping
the cold
steering wheel--
mirror fogging
from my anxious
breath-- 
i said
this is when 
the car starts--
this is when
the car is supposed
to start--
she couldn't leave
me-- this was
when she was 
supposed 
to wake up--
this was when 
she
was supposed 
the get on
her knees &
inhale
deep the unforgiving
frost--
my car has
been a sort of
lover to me-- 
we hold both
hands when 
i'm too nervous
to sleep-- 
up the street--
linger
in the planetary 
glow of the stop light
on mulhenberg drive--
park
at the back of the
lot where other
cars won't see
me lay down
in the back seat
among used books
& a blue broom
i use to wipe
the snow
off the windows--
i guess
i did have something
to write a poem
about--
i have so many
little things like
that--
you know i don't
actually have a single
clue what i'm going
to do today 
& it's the new year--
it's terrifying
& my car
is dead in
the driveway &
the only
place i can think
to go is
my parents house--
not because i actually
want to be there 
but because 
i have this
fantasy each
time i drive there
that this will
be the time that every-
thing feels right
like it only
ever will in 
a smudgy memory
that probably never 
actually happened--
when i don't feel
so sad there--
i said
maybe this year
we could try
my name & my
pronouns--
it's exhausting
to ask--
i don't really
know how many
more times
i will have
the courage
to-- 
breath 
on the back 
window--
i don't know
what this poem
is about--