Maladaptive Daydreaming
The flashing lights grow closer,
but the cries of my 6-year-old sister
have quieted.
To my left, I see the car driver, my brother,
lying motionless in the road.
Rain hits my legs.
No.
Blood drips down my body.
I can no longer feel my own pulse.
Relief washes over me;
I won’t have to face the agony of losing you.
I think I die.
I hope I do.
But the light never ignites,
only an empty darkness
that feels like home.
We can’t lose her either
I felt the rejuvenating pulse throughout
my whole body.
I resurface,
broken but breathing.
Turning onto the gravel driveway,
I wipe the tears from my face.
Bracing to greet my parents,
I plaster on a genuine smile
masking my sorrow.
Taking my keys out of the ignition,
the story crumbles.
I made up the car crash
simply to pass time.
No glass, no screaming.
No loss, no love.
The pain is just as real, the guilt, the confusion
of inventing a nightmare
just to escape my mundane routine
of school, work, study, sleep.
I stare at the grey house in front of me,
like it’s a stranger.
I wonder if I am the kind
of person who needs tragedy
just to believe I matter.
I never wanted to survive this quiet life,
wanted only to stop pretending
I’m okay.
I walk inside, the beige walls welcome me.
I say hello like I haven’t imagined
my own eulogy.
I eat dinner, talk about school
and about work.
No one knows that I die
every day in a place
they can’t see.
Copyright © Emmaline Bohn | Year Posted 2025
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