There is no end to the circle I live in.

I attempt to trace back my steps, 

but my resistance is met by force.

Around and around I go:

Stuck within the rotation- my existence is characterized by one of two states:

Burning my flesh as I’m ground against the pavement, or

moving up and around so fast the only view I see is distorted.

I am a bump on the tire of a car

that you get a rise out of pulverizing. 

That smug look on your face is plastered on by apathy

You tease the gas pedal

On long straight roads, you indulge in a rash outbursts

that rip my skin like machine gun fire.

I would object, but it’s all I’ve known 

and you’ve manipulated me to keep spinning so you remain the law. 

The components you subject to your wrath are quietly screaming for help:

I am one of those voices, though unaware of the other’s suffering.

For that ignorance, I can thank the undercurrents of fear you instill

What dark, opaque oil you feed us. 

After two decades, you ran this car to the ground.

Upon churning to a stop, the cycle is now broken; 

I breathe consciousness for the first time and come to loathe you for 

for abusing this car under the guise of running a family.