because i could not stop for death

Hands under the water
Keep scrubbing.

You pull them from the lukewarm stream and look them over: the bloodstains remain. Are they yours? Stop wasting the water.

It’s too precious.
Too finite.
Like life.

The face looking back in the mirror seems distorted. Alien. Foreign. Existence is suffering, but you are what you eat. The toilet seat barely opens, abdominals clutching as a noxious, black fluid spills all over the seat. It smells of cigarettes and something else…

You don’t remember, do you?

Every day is a new day.
A new memory
A new horror.

No escape.

The bathroom door swings open into the lobby of a cheap motel. A few late night guests crowd around the front desk clerk. You could smile, but why would you? Just put on a mask. Eyes watch, but they don't see. And how could they? Just put on a mask. Conform and adapt and why wouldn't you? Just put on a mask.

The voices, their voices, whispering.

"A freak."
"A monster."
"An animal."

Words that echo through your very soul. Because they're true? If truth is in the eye of the beholder, then why is justice blind? Truth is a privilege for the powerful and a weapon against the weak. Justice?

The world is never just, and it is a cruel repetition.

Just wash your hands.
Put on your mask.
Step into the world.

Voices fade, but eyes follow.

The feeling of hairs crawling along your shoulders, like a spider inching its way across your back. Into the night, the peaceful night. It would be so easy to step into the road.

Close your eyes.
Go to sleep.
The end.

That’s what they want though, isn’t it?

Submission.
Obedience.

Do you give in and lay down and become just another bump in the road?

Or do you stand in defiance? Do you wear their masks or craft your own? The image in the window of the car…so unfamiliar. On instinct, the keys are in your hand and in the car and the ignition roars to life and you think, “How did I get here? And where is here? And where am I going?”

“Whose car is this? Is it mine?”

A glimpse in the mirror.
So unfamiliar - the face looking back in the crimson lights.

You don’t remember, do you?

Put it in drive.
Hit the gas.
And go.

Into the night.
Into the darkness.

So inviting. Hands on the steering wheel - ten and two: because they told you. It will keep you safe, but what about them? What keeps them safe? Is it the feeling of control?

You are in control: You don't remember, do you?

"Where am I heading?"
"Where am I going?"
"Does it even matter?”

Do you cut off the lights and turn into traffic? Do you go in blind? The element of surprise is the illusion of control, so then do you turn on your brights and let them know you're coming? If two cars crash in the night and nobody survives, did it even happen?

Where are you heading?
Where are you going?
And does it even matter?

We often forget the destination; we always remember the journey and the bumps in the road. You clutch the wheel at ten and two: the illusion of control. There are bloodstains on your hands. Are they yours?

And who are you?

You look into the mirror.

Just another Jane Doe.