One moment you're on your way home, driving a car you just bought two weeks ago and the next you're gasping for air, tearing at a safety feature that now seems to have been created to keep you trapped
The dead hands of despair and terror and loss grip your heart and rip it from its home in your chest
You're out of the car and screaming and a man is asking if you're okay while you're wondering the same about the woman in the other car
He's holding your dog and looking at you rightfully wary
Swears spill from your mouth faster than the blood and you didn't even know you were bleeding and everything is panic and pain and hopelessness because **** there goes everything you've been working for for the last six months
All of your dreams were wrapped up in that car and now that car is wrapped around itself
You wrap up around yourself and the rest of the night is a blur
You let everyone take care if it for you, immediately falling back into a pit of old habits you have been clawing your way out of
The car is in your garage now and your college acceptance letter sits in a box, both collecting dust and pity and your avoidance