My father told me
to **** myself.
Lacking like-mindedness,
thankfully I've never been one
to do as they're told.
Knuckles white,
gripping the steering wheel,
face flush,
my inner monologue tells me
to drive straight through the curve.
A crash a crunch and a click.
This accident had a purpose;
was on purpose.
Upside-down, perspective is vertigo.
Clarity is a crack in the windshield.
Shattered glass lay around me.
Lump in my throat
from a pill too large to swallow.
So I crawl to an antique store
and purchase an urn.
A pull from a cigarette, I tap
the ash into the urn.
When the pack is finished
I place the lid
and hand the contents
to my father.