You drove me to the cemetery to watch the punk kids smoke cigarettes and trample over graves they have no right to be visiting, taking pictures and laughing. You said it's what you did in middle school. It's where you'd go when your parents started fighting, finding solace among the overgrown weeds. Comfort in simplicities. You drove me all throughout the city to watch the school kids chat about their days and hold their parents' hands. Sitting there, you calmly explained how yours were never there to do that. Then the demons started fighting and the anxieties started biting in your mind. Memories flash back. You bash your head against the wheel and scream, "The parking lot's too god damn small today. I can't back out, I can't think straight. It's getting harder every day."
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