passenger seat

She’s sitting in the passenger seat, backpack held close to her chest to protect her from the road ahead. She’s leaving herself behind, and she’s scared of what lies in front of her.

She’s sitting in the passenger seat, watching again as the road changes in front of her, helpless to pull the wheel or push the brake.

She’s sitting in the passenger seat, her new guardian beside her. Only fifteen years old and already she’s seen the walls of six different buildings to call home.

She’s sitting in the passenger seat, pulling out of the driveway of her last prison. Her backpack is balanced on her knees again, she’s keeping it close; the one thing that has never left.

She’s sitting in the driver’s seat, feeling the wheel turn under her hands as she pulls out of the agency’s parking lot. Her backpack is sitting across from her, its familiar battered face a comfort. The road ahead of her no longer holds any fear, for she’s the one in the driver’s seat now; she can go where she wants.
Oh, this passenger seat. Always taking away, always leaving again.

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