killed, the driver screams
around a mouthful of indignation
mixed with relief as the shriek-squeal
of the brakes ricochets between the buildings
on the street into which I stepped after

leaving the office which houses
the job I haven't actually done
for months but to which
I dutifully transport myself
each morning in order to

pay the therapist who can no more
tell me which voices are real
than she can convince me to
give up the razors and to

feed the child who used to be
the one thing keeping me alive
but who now to my overwhelming dismay
is trying to outdo my insanity

You could've been killed,
the driver screams
I know, I say, but what
in my face or manner leads you
to believe I would mind?

11/21/2002

Author's Note: Repost, after my traumatic mis-click.

Posted on 12/22/2002
Copyright © 2026 Kristine Briese