Zuhair Murad Haute Couture Spring 2014
when i thought you were done with me,
i was wrecked like a car
in a freak accident
on the side of the highway.
whether it be said accident
or my life in question
the driver was drunk regardless.
every time I talk to you at parties,
i feel like a clunker
that you’re taking
out on a test drive.
you make small talk like you wish
you had an ounce of knowledge
when it comes to
what to say to me,
but deep down,
you know that i know
you’re bound to make me
fall to pieces.
each and every time i see you
when I am drunk and nearly beyond repair,
it’s like you’re always courteous enough
to try and pick up the pieces of something i brought onto myself,
but when you realize that
i’m not worth your time,
you hand me tools
and leave me alone to fix myself.
at night, I think too much about what i went through for you.
i was emotionally beaten and bruised,
like you were giving me love taps
until my bumper fucking fell to the ground.
and nobody wants a broken car,
a broken girl, a broken anything.
nothing is beautiful
unless it’s well put-together.
every time i think i want you back,
i remember how you work.
we are and always will be in charge of our own lives,
driving our own paths.
you are the driver of a beaten up semi-truck
with a questionable blood alcohol level
who holds another girl’s phone number in your hand
and hope in your heart that she will answer when you call.
i’m behind the wheel of a tiny, fragile car
with defective air bags
and an anxiety that screams
“please let me get home unharmed”
until you doze off slightly
and drift into my lane.
you will leave me battered and scarred,
a skeleton of what I once was.
i am left alone
on the side of an open, country road
with a new idea
of what home is.
home is the shatter of windows,
the sound your wheels make
when you skid into the shoulder
of the parkway.
home is the mess
we have made together,
and i still don’t know
how i’m supposed to feel about it.