I never liked driving south of here. The trees weave differently throughout roads that grow longer. Hold my hand and count to ten because I swear I won’t jump. I’m too conscious for that. The absence of my words make you squirm. You’re withdrawing from my venom and I won’t feed you, I’ll watch you choke on air that belongs to me. And I’ll never drive south of here again because I don’t need to. I hated how the cornfields whispered my name as I sped past them. They tempted me to go home and I wish I would have listened to their plea. Instead, I drowned in a summer I never asked for and watched the heat drench me in rays of sun that seemed to shine brighter south of here. Where the town center sleeps too early and the people gather around people who make them look like better people. But they’re not. They’re broken like the rest of us and I won’t soak up this space because it doesn’t match the curvature of my palms. The ones I raise out the sunroof of my car as they graze the halo of the stars. As I’m heading back home. Hold my words tightly so that they only circle back to me. Keep driving until I reach my favorite corners of the earth. The places that show me healing. I never liked driving south of here, anyways. -AMT