Shattered glass tastes like shock.

Smells like the sanctity of white flowers by the roadside.

What could have been, what was, and what will be,

sitting shoulder to shoulder with ghosts on the eucalyptus leaves and asphalt,

united by the familiar sirens in the distance.

What a cruel joke. 

I lived. 

That's the difference between the two of us,

the white flowers and I.

I’m sorry for your loss, I whisper months later.

Shattered glass tastes like shock.

Smells like the car is no longer on the ground, wind in my hair,

Feels like peace.

Peace when it's all over.

The beating of my heart competes with the screams echoing down the mountainside. 

Every night is a stop motion picture

as I remember things that I don't actually remember.

As I crave emotions I can’t bring myself to feel.

To emote.

As I myself,

crave to shatter.