Traffic Jam
The sand from the hourglass is slipping through the cracks between my fingers.
as I track my time in increments,
regulated, rhythmic, redundant.
the weekends coming,
it’s almost winter break.
I think, as I fail to realize that I am watching time pass me by
like I'm standing on the side of the road watching the cars drive by
instead of being in one,
controlling the wheel and pressing the gas.
I catch a glimpse of an empty car parked on the side of the road,
desperately scrambling towards it,
my hair whipping around my face,
obscuring my vision,
clouding my judgement.
I try and try and try to push it away—
but it keeps coming back.
drive, drive, drive,
a voice tells me.
as I steady my shivering, shaking hands grasping the wheel.
don't,
my hair hisses.
encircling my face with the grip of a vice
tighter, and tighter, then black.
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