They say life flashes before your eyes, but they didn’t say it might not be recognized. Might not even be mine.
Cars are too smooth these days. Windows that won’t be confined to a side. Colours that splash into sight. My head barely clearing the hood of trucks—supersized.
If they told me I’d be getting hit in a crosswalk today, I would have prepared. Painted my nails. Dug out the good underwear.
Instead I’m laid out in saggy should-have-done-my-laundry-weeks-ago beige. Chipped fingernails reaching for memories that don’t even belong to me.
Man, death can be so mean.