Roadkill
I look at every piece of roadkill I drive past and wonder if it’s still alive. A millisecond daydream of stopping and checking for a pulse. Ignoring the flies and begging for life. Then I blink and I’m still driving and the thought is gone.
I always wondered why I had such a somber habit, until the night I pleaded to a stranger on a bridge to live. Taking off my jumper and pointing to my scars, screaming to see the evidence that we are the same. We both stared at the water below, and for three hours we were one person. Crying and holding each other, lit by the hazard lights of my car. Orange turning to blue.
Now my mum scolds me for staring too long at the broken wing feather that skims the tyre of the car in front, to be more careful, to keep myself safe first.
She wanted to tell me to be selfish, but I think she knows deep down that that is all I feel now.
Because he survived that night, and I fear I did not.