The Drive Home

He drives me home.

I can’t stop counting the drops on windshield.  I want them to rush at me, splatter mud and debris to my cheeks, break my back with the weight of ropes and whips, camouflage my face from his stare so the tears can free fall.

I knew the storm was coming. I am eager for it.

The storm doesn’t ask why my hipbones are sore, why bruises the size of fingerprints bloom on my biceps, why I can’t hold my secrets safe. The storm doesn’t ask questions; it merely takes my body and holds it. It allows my insides to split at the seams and be flushed fresh.

It will feel good to break free of confinement and car door. The storm on skin will drench the mistake of him from me, but for now I sit silent in passenger seat, counting:
how many times I’ve seen him,
how many nights I’ve spent wrapped in his arms,
how many partings I whispered ‘I love you’
so close,
so quiet,
so afraid he might hear.

Soon I will feel rain again, thick and glorious, the pelt of wind and crack of hail against cheek bones. I will stop counting, stop keeping track, and instead be lost in the overwhelm.