Tailgater

I’m tailgating. Oh god, I’m tailgating again. Why do I keep doing this? I told myself I’d stop; yet here I am, engine revving, inching closer and closer to that blasted license plate. “SaveDaC,” to be sure. Picture of a whale. Is that why I’m tailgating you? It must be. That must be the reason, because it certainly can’t be the itch on the back of my neck, the screaming in my head that’s telling me to run, just run, the twitch in my foot that -- my goodness! -- keeps pushing the accelerator. I see you, glancing nervously at me in your rearview mirror. You’re speeding up a little, but so am I. You’re just prolonging the inevitable. I will either pass you or I’ll crash into you, whichever happens first. What fun! A game of chicken, two lives at stake! -- oh, or maybe three lives at stake. I just saw the waving of a little hand in the backseat. Hello there! You’ll be the first one my fender crushes! Aha, you’re speeding up again, that’s a love. My fingers ache with how tightly they’re clutching the steering wheel. My foot hurts from trying to slow down. If it weren’t for that pain, you’d be a smear on the highway by now. You’d be another nameless fatality, another hit and run, and I’d be running and running and running at last.

Author's Note

is this a poem? i dunno