Check Engine Light

I guess it has to be me. A driving force.
My body is not a temple. It is a road.
A real road with sharp turns, cracks, bumps, hills that tire you out.
Some places have been explored too much. 

It feels like I have been driven over

Same path, same view, until everything looks the same.
Long drives are not fun anymore. They just make me tired.
Nothing new. Just more distance.

My body tries to push people away but it does not work.
They find better places to go anyway.
Smoother streets, easier rides.

The tires are worn out. The paint is scratched.
I don't even know if the engine still works right.

My eyes have seen enough for a lifetime.
They have watched people cry and laughed too hard when I didn't mean it.
They have seen me get bigger and smaller in the mirror.
Like I could not hold one shape for long.
My eyes have compared me to everyone else.
My eyes have loved and hated everything they have seen.
If my body is a road, my eyes are the stops along the way.
Quick flashes of something that matter and then disappear.

What I have seen has changed me.
Made my eyes look darker, made them harder to read.
When I am done, when I have seen enough, I will just shut them and leave it at that.

I hear everything too.
I hear the cars outside
The honking that keeps me awake.
The sudden screeching when someone slams their brakes without warning.
I hear engines getting louder like they are angry.
I hear sirens that do not even scare me anymore.
I hear people fighting with their windows up, thinking no one can hear.
I hear songs playing halfway through before they get lost in static.

My body is a road.
And everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve heard, everything I’ve felt,
It’s all stuck in the pavement now.
Part of me.

But maybe I’m not just a road anymore. Maybe I’m the car too.
And sure, I’ve stalled out. I’ve overheated.
I’ve run on empty more times than I can count.
My paint’s been chipped. My mirrors cracked. My insides rattled.
But lately, I’ve been in the shop. Not broken. Just rebuilding.
New tires. Fresh oil. A color that feels more like me.
Because a car that’s sat in a garage its whole life might look perfect
But it won’t know how to handle storms.
I do.
And that means something.
I’m still running. Still moving.
And this time, I’m the one driving.