Right now in the rest area it’s sunny and cold. Someone 
is taking a picture of the vending machine. I have 
never been sad for appropriate reasons. Never 
have I sat in the wet grass looking not at dark sky 
but blue paper someone had carefully taken 
hours to punch out in a shape invisible 
until the flashlight is turned on below. Earlier 
when I said everything is a switch immediately 
the interlocking gears in the self-hatred mechanism 
began to grind. Part of me is always about to turn 
in a direction I will never go. Trucks roar 
filled with things people need. Sometimes I sound 
to myself like a robot. Too many times as a teen 
I stared onto the surface of a mysterious 
solvable multifaceted cube. I can see you don’t need 
me to stretch out my hand to point to dread 
and its little button. The door swings open,