Filler-Up and Roll On

Every morning, I pull in They tell me, just keep going,

like I’m some truck stop cowboy

with an endless road stretched out in neon lines.

But mental illness—

it ain’t a smooth ride.

It’s a gas can strapped to my back,

sloshing heavy with fumes

that choke before they fuel.

Every morning, I pull into the station,

coin jar empty,

pockets turned inside out,

yet they say, filler-up and roll on.

So I siphon from yesterday’s pain,

pouring it into today’s tank,

driving on borrowed fire

that burns more than it moves me.

Sometimes the gauge lies.

Reads full when I’m bone dry,

reads empty when I’m blazing.

Either way,

I’m stranded on a shoulder where hope

is just another car that passes by

without stopping.

Mental illness is the gas you can’t afford,

the tank that leaks slow but steady,

the smell that sticks to your hands

long after you’ve washed them clean.

And the diesel—

thick in the air,

always a reminder

that “fuel” and “funeral”

share the same breath.

Still I grab the nozzle,

fumble with shaking hands,

telling myself,

just one more gallon, one more mile,

because even rusted engines

dream of highways without tolls.

So filler-up, they say,

like it’s easy, like it’s cheap.

But I know the truth:

sometimes rolling on

means pushing the wreck

with nothing but breath and broken faith.

Still I roll,

fumes and all,

because stopping feels like surrender

and surrender feels like silence.

And silence has never saved me.