I drive my dad's car over the Francis Scott Key Bridge.
Have an attack of conscience and wake up salty.

Now I understand. It's the nine-to-five sleepy.
Paint by numbness kit.

Somehow the acoustic guitar solo of my life
got paused, then muted, then left on a silent loop.

I am a girl trapped in an underground warehouse. Strangers poke
at my ultra-modern corpse composed in thrift store finds.

There is nothing in my pocket but these cardboard cutouts
of words. Please and Thank You are not magic.

At this moment kissing someone in a cabin
could be lethal.

I feel the car heavy its hallelujah
to the bottom of the river.

Wake up in an old sweat.
The bedsheets smell like anxiety.

It's only April, but already
my life is half-over.

The windshield, cannibal-warm.