All power to the imagination! It is forbidden to forbid! - Situationist graffiti, May '68


Erin Caldwell

I am sitting here and thinking in silence. It's been two hours since we left for home, driving in this car, me and you, alone. The vision of you will float in the back of my head forever. After I die, it will be here, long after my body has been separated. Your face is only anger--it smells and sounds like anger. Anger is in your teeth and your saliva. The trees rush by the window, the window beside my face, cool with green streaks and white specks of litter, beer cans, hamburger bags, and cigarette butts. You are driving fast and then slow, sporadic. My nerve is the gas pedal and you press it harder now to get away from the other cars but it won't work. The other cars just follow anyway. I can't move now. I am trapped under your foot, you see, and it hurts. I am not here only for you, not for you at all. The red light yells out for you to stop and you press the brake and turn to me and speak of how I should be, how I am, and how you were. They are all the same, but you, nearsighted, can't see that. These words of how and how and how mean nothing from you. They mean nothing or less than that ever. I'm going to open the door now and walk away. You can chase me if you want, but you won't catch me, never. Because I'm seventeen, and you're not.