I Used to Fantasize About Crashing My Car
I didn’t want peace. I wanted a sanctioned breakdown. A full stop with no guilt stapled to it. Wanted someone to strap me down and say, “You don’t have to move anymore.”
I used to picture it clean—
the curve,
the steel,
the slow-motion mercy of not braking.
Not fatal.
Just broken enough
to finally count.
A neck brace.
A morphine drip.
A nurse who didn’t need a reason
to care.
A bed without clocks.
White walls.
Thin blankets.
And a silence so heavy
it didn’t ask questions.
I didn’t want peace.
I wanted a sanctioned breakdown.
A full stop
with no guilt stapled to it.
Wanted someone to strap me down
and say, “You don’t have to move anymore.”
No more pretending I had it.
No more smiling when I was full of static.
No more showing up
when everything inside
was already on fire.
They’d bring flowers.
Maybe balloons.
Write cards that said Get well soon
like I’d finally earned
a pause.
No one calls you dramatic
with a concussion.
No one rolls their eyes
at visible wounds.
But carry it all in your gut,
in your lungs,
behind your smile
and they call that life.
They want you upright.
On time.
Grateful.
Even when your chest
feels like a locked room
full of broken furniture.
I fantasized about the wreck
because healing through blood
sounded easier
than surviving without proof.
Let me be clear:
I didn’t want to die.
I just wanted to be forced
to stop.
Wanted the wreckage
to speak for me,
to scream “See? I wasn’t fine.”
Because apparently,
bones get more empathy
than breakdowns.
So I took corners too fast.
Dared red lights to decide for me.
Prayed; not to God,
but to gravity
for just enough pain
to earn silence.
But I never crashed.
And that
was the hardest part.
Still driving.
Still showing up.
Still unseen.
Still screaming
where no one listens.
Still waiting
for someone
to call this
enough.
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