“night driving”

by Leela Raj-Sankar

Two in the morning, mid-December—

the crackling radio huffs out a song

you haven’t heard since you were fifteen,

hiding from your parents in your best friend’s

basement. A deer stands in the center of the

road, trapped in the bright beam of your headlights—

you watch yourself in its eyes, transfixed by

your own stiffness, hands rigid at

ten-and-two on the steering wheel, mouth set in a thin,

straight line. Your face at least ten years older

than the rest of you. Somehow, you are just as terrified-looking as the deer,

both frozen solid in the blue-tinged twilight; Alanis Morissette, half-drowned

in static, croons from the speakers, isn’t it ironic? 

An exhale, slow. Your breath visible, even with the car’s heater on full blast. The two-way

mirror only stares back at you, forever reflecting the rotting, year-old dreams 

that fog up your windshield. 

The song ends. The window shutters. The deer

darts off the road. In the distance,

a streetlight flickers once, twice, then

sighs into the darkness. Silently, you promise yourself,

for the thousandth time, that you are not going to die.

Leela Raj-Sankar is an Indian-American teenager from Arizona. Their work has appeared in Mixed Mag, Warning Lines, and Ghost Heart Lit, among others. In his spare time, he can usually be found doing math homework or taking long naps. Say hi to her on Twitter @sickgirlisms.