I think back on
how I’ve masterfully
fucked everything up,
time and time, with each
person or persons.
They’re trails of almosts and
a never-ending list of
unexplained feelings and
”sorrys” —
I’m covering my bases
for experiencing life
just outside of
my own mind.
They’re backseat drivers,
hands firm on the wheel.
How would I take control back
after all these years?

Reagan Fleming