Yes, there was a time that I wanted to die, but let’s not speak of it again.
The car that I considered it in, anyways, has long been torn apart, 
the brakes that almost killed me three times ripped out finally, 
relegated to trash, though we, the faulty machinery & I, 
share memories that both make & unmake us: each time
I pressed down on the pedal & felt no resistance, 
each time I felt my body hurtling toward a certain
unstoppable ruin, I was terrified, & in that way, 
the brakes called my bluff. I did want to live, 
however desperate my sadness seemed
to me at times. Even then, in the depths
of it, I couldn’t stop remembering 
the dead space between the pedal 
& the floor, the sudden longing 
for more of this living,
whatever that meant, 
the prayer that 
bubbled up in me 
like a small, 
ultimately 
common 
sort of 
betrayal.