In a congested store,
there were dozens of you.
Drooping pants with
patterns of leaves and woods.
Tousled hair, insanity wrapped
around your irises.

On the ride home, in a
perfectly unassailable
neighborhood, you were there.
That’s him, I spoke, fear filling
the inside and coating the
outside. He’s here.

Why do people glamorize this
ghastly feeling?
He may be devouring pills,
swatting at nonexistent flies,
but what about us?

He was a magnanimous
boy! A good kid who steered
in the wrong direction.

But why did the effects of his
crash **** me? What the hell did
I do to deserve such panic?