What I'm Not
As I swing into the spot
I hear it.
The distinctive crunch of metal on bumper
The invincible noise of destruction,
The ever present knowledge it is my fault.
I am not a good parker.
I watch the people slide by me,
They don’t know who I am or what I am.
I desire to reach out and touch them:
Physically, mentally, terribly.
But I am not outgoing.
“How could you do this to me?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I hate you.”
I’d hate me too.
I am not an ex-girlfriend.