Anxiety swells up in a knot right in my stomach every time I think about coming home, being near you again. And I know you won't reach out to me, you don't care, you won't give me the time of day and you won't try to make this right. You will always make me come to you, you will give me all the time I need or want, you will never be the first to open up. I am terrified to the point of paralysis of seeing out in the street, maybe pumping gas or pulling out of McDonald's with your cousin. And I know this is one of the few chances I'll have, the slim time frame in between when you deem morally acceptable to dump your girlfriend and then move onto the next one.
Tomorrow night I will enter the heart of a warzone, fifteen minutes away from the enemy. Shaking to the core, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, eyes peeled for any sign of you. Every Nissan is a target, every stickered bumper is a red flag. Having to carry around this heavy, broken heart is tiresome, and the only person who can fix it is you. And somehow, I'm afraid that it will lead me straight to you.
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