Accepting blame

Sometimes, I don't even recognize my hands. I'm scared to write such unhappy things. I'm like a lion in my empty apartment bedroom, wearing two sweatshirts, on the hardwood floor. In my head, I don't even want to go there. I just want my car back, and even that seems like a long stretch. My legs don't want to carry me from Spartanburg to Greer, and it's scary to see smoke escaping your engine, but I have no choice.