Brake by Kendra Banach

Kendra Banach

He stands in the headlights, and doesn’t flinch. Every fiber of my being wishes for revenge but I could never hurt him.

Each inhale reminds me that I didn’t brush my teeth this morning, because I never slept, I just lay in bed for five minute intervals, choking on every neon green digit on the cable box. And pacing in disconnected patterns on the hardwood floor.

Sara sits in the driver’s seat and laughs about my animosity towards classical music. She lets me play Nirvana on the drive even though she has a migraine, because she can tell I’m not ready to be alone.

Tiny paper cuts grace my cheeks in the fall wind, and I hope it’ll freeze out the reminder that he only stayed my friend to spare my feelings.

I’m roadkill at his feet, gut punched and writhing I want to reach over and shift the gear into drive, and put us both out of our misery, but I won’t. I stare at my hands, buzzing in my lap.