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 sh...