Disposable

There I sat time and time again, speeding down the road next to the love of my life. "Go on. Say it," I said. The silence deafening louder than the roar of the engine and the wheels rolling across snow and ice. "You're disposable," they said. "As if I didn't know that," my reply. Still the words stung like a hornet electrifying my chest. "Don't you want to do something more than just this? To be more than just you?" they said. "You don't have to remind me I'm never enough, I'm well aware of that fact," my answer. Now, the hot tears streaked across their faces while I kept driving numb like a zombie. As the time passed, I retreated into silent anger. Every time I'm riding the highest point on the roller coaster must I be reminded of the drop to come. All the work, all the anticipation, and all the courage. I open the door to the bedroom in a ramble, in a calmly furious rant. "I get it! I get it! Stop reminding me that you can take away what you've given me," as though the conversation in the car never ended. I continued, "You hold the cards, you hold the power, so only you can know if you want this life." I ended, "But for the love of God, let me at least pretend I'm not."