Driving the Black Ribbon

I drive this same dark road each night,

the same black ribbon, the same relentless thoughts.

Headlights carve a narrow path through the dark—

a small, fleeting kindness

I try to give the people around me.

At least they smile.

This nightly drive is heavy with pain

and a loneliness that settles deep in the bones.

I pollute the world that has poisoned me first,

breathing out exhaustion into the cold air.

Jolts of tiredness hit like warning lights—

My mind fighting to stay anchored, to stay present.

Thoughts drift toward vanishing:

How many would notice, how many would pause?

The image of their possible hurt twists in me—

It hurts; it should cut deeper than my own emptiness,

but it falls short, never quite enough to change the weight I carry.

I don’t want them to suffer.

Not even a fraction.

And the worst fear creeps in quietly:

that they might barely register the absence,

that my place in their world is smaller than I’ve told myself,

a shadow easily stepped past.

Numbness arrives then, thick as winter fog

swallowing the headlights, turning everything gray and distant.

I drive calmly, deliberately—no reckless speed,

no hunger for a dangerous rush—

only the steady rhythm to quiet the noise inside,

to let the mind retreat into temporary seclusion.

Because the road is the only place

that has ever listened without turning away,

the only space that demands nothing back.

I dream sometimes of driving on forever—

leaving every name, every face behind.

The idea offers a thin thread of relief,

almost like breathing room.

But the thought of goodbye sharpens fast,

bright as sudden brake lights in the night,

And I choose to swallow the ache myself

rather than risk letting it wound anyone else.

Each oncoming pair of headlights

is a brief, distant reminder of other lives still burning,

proof that joy exists somewhere—

for a while.

Never forever.

The empty road holds no promises,

no mercy, only a cold mirror

reflecting the same tired face.

Driving away feels easier in the moment

than facing the turn back home—

but it’s only a pause,

not an answer