Sitting in the back
of our ‘85 Nissan Sentra,
the vinyl seats combine with the sweat
pooling under my thighs,
creating an unnatural adhesive
that threatens to peel the skin
from my body if I dare to move.

Did that car have AC?
I only remember the windows
always being open, always cracked,
even in winter, for his cigarettes.
The smoke wafts back,
burning my nose, my eyes.
He was never allowed to smoke
inside the house.
A car is technically outside the house.

I feign burns;
claiming the ashy embers
are making their way to me.
And could he please stop now?
Sometimes he would,
rolling the window up,
frustration and annoyance in each crank
of the handle till the window is closed,
thick silence replacing the smoke.

“Is that better?”

The answer burns like sulfur,
like a struck match.

Another fight, another collision of wills.
Another time when my preferences are selfish,
but his are not.
Another time when I’m unreasonable,
but he is not.
She always says we’re too much alike,
and he agrees,
yet somehow the him in me
is always worse
than the him in himself.

The worst part of every fight is his apology.

“I love you.”

I nod and avert my eyes.

“And you love me, right?”

The question sets my insides aflame,
filling my lungs with thick, hot smoke,
suffocating me till I can’t answer,
even if I want to.
And I don’t want to.

One day, that same Nissan Sentra
starts rolling down the driveway.
He jumps into the driver’s seat,
door half open, half closed.
Body half in, half out.
Pumping the brakes
till he and the car go
over the creek bank.
I scream like I care.
I don’t mean to.
I don’t mean to care.

“That scared you, huh?”

The answer is a crucible.
I am a crucible.
I can withstand the heat.

Every question is a demand.
Some answers burn like fire,
smoldering inside your chest.
To speak them is to risk a mouthful of flames;
scorching the earth that stands between.
One day, I’ll open my mouth
and let the whole thing burn.