Brake Check This, Motherfucker

When I left the house this morning,
I had hope.
I had purpose.
I had a plan.

​And then a Tesla driver
decided we all needed
to slow down—
tires barely spinning,
speed limit signs
laughing in disbelief.

​You.
You are the target of my rage.
Feel my righteous indignation.
Understand:
you are the problem.

​Society suffers
when you get behind the wheel.

​Stay the fuck out of this stanza.
This is for people
who want to move forward.

​But oh, you don’t just drive slow.
No, no—
that would be human,
forgivable.

​You brake for shadows.
You swerve for leaves.
You tap the brakes at green lights
as if time needs buffering
before you dare to continue.

​I watch from behind—
hands tightening,
pulse pounding
like a countdown to detonation.

​And I wonder:
What went wrong in your life?
Who hurt you?
Do you feel joy?
Have you ever arrived on time?

​And then—
you pull into the left lane.

​The left lane.

​As if you're entitled
to the space where dreams are chased,
where destinies are met.

​You are the dream killer.
The destiny thief.
A sentient roadblock.
A moving violation
against progress itself.

​And yet—
in the simmering rage,
a thought creeps in:

​What if you're right?
What if I’m the problem?
What if I need
to slow down,
to breathe,
to stop chasing time
like it owes me something?

​Maybe you are my lesson.
Maybe I should—

​No.
Fuck that.

​Move.

​I lay on the horn
like a battle cry.
You flinch.
You speed up.

​Hope is restored.

​Then—
red light.

​We meet again.
I exhale through gritted teeth.

​You stare straight ahead,
pretending not to feel
the weight of my glare.

​Light turns green.
You hesitate.

​I do not.

​I launch forward,
peeling away,
leaving you
and your slow, hesitant existence
in the dust.

​A victory,
small but necessary.