My Blind Spot Is Gone, My Engine No Longer in Sync with His Breath of Fire.
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I’m submerged in a cynical storm, with the Check Engine light on.
He’s a used car salesman selling me for cheap. Wearing a cynical scorn, I’m here to repossess my old piece of property.
His ad says I’m a classic beauty with some wear and tear and a few extra miles. Says I have an engine like the never-ending Rhine… no luxury, just hard wrought mechanics. Shiningly authentic.
He’s a Midwest farm boy in a bitter East Coast ride, he loved my look, but not when I shook. He rode me through the night, but lost me in the light.
I adored him despite his trivial pursuits and the corners he cut. I put the top down and hit the gas, my heart racing almost as fast. With conditioned reflexes and an engineer’s precision, he always pumped the brakes. Be careful, I told him, come-close-go-away, stop-and-go traffic can give way to road rage.
We haggle over price for a while and I enjoy the debate with my former bedmate. Filled with delusions of grandeur among the fanfare, over him I fawn, my twisted Don Juan. His elements course through my veins like an infectious fever. A mirage mistaken for an oasis. I’m landlocked, like a Midwest farm, in the interstitial space between shallowness and depth, head and heart, love and logic.
We are the dark side I can’t escape. The side that pulls me back when I’m headed toward the light. It uses me when I’m this close to being free. It seeps into my soul and destroys me. It’s that thing inside that flutters and pounds and hurts. It’s the anxiety and the adrenaline of full throttle, but still I ride and crave the clemency I’m not sure I deserve.
The engine roars in sync with his breath of fire. With volcanic micromovements, my breath trembles from my lips to his hips. On my knees, he’s in my mouth. Every utterance is mercilessly embraced. Our bodies move with the momentum of a fairy tale, whimsical and strife. He turns the corner on two wheels and I turn the page. He shuts the engine, I shut the book. Turns out this type of story is a legendary myth.
The gravitational pull loosens, and grace consumes me. It’s the final act of self-actualization.
With my soul in the driver’s seat, I reclaim that tender yet strong piece of my old property. It’s still filled with virtue or vice, no sugar, no spice, but I can accept that today. I accept that I cannot accept ambivalence, and I realize that there is beauty in redemption. I finally see hope for resurrection from misdeeds of the past.
At the wheel and back at the starting line, my passenger seat is empty. I slam the trunk on my stars and scars, letting them coexist. I put on the headlights and check my mirrors. My blind spot is gone, and red flags are in the rearview. Looking ahead, the only flags are black-and-white checkered ones. On your mark, get set…
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Amy Blanaru is a left-leaning Celtic Gypsy based in Boston. She works in addiction treatment and likes her pasta al dente. You can find her on Facebook.
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