Every morning, driving,
I see the orange sun rising,
trying to shove my problems
into a four-inch storage bin.
Lock it tight behind a
four-inch orange door.
Inject myself with a syringe
full of poisonous illusions,
covered in mental wounds,
I fall to the floor,
self-hate oozing.

Losing sleep,
screaming inside.
Drifting apart in my car—
I wanna call you.
My heart’s sinking,
tryna salvage good moments.
It’s a challenge
to forgive myself again.

I’m sorry.
I haven’t left
you a message.
All day, I’ve wanted
to talk to you.
Sitting in my car,
watching the orange
sun falling down,
I drift…