The dent I left behind

Under flickering gas station lights

my breath caught in the chipped dent,

etched shallow, like a bruise

on borrowed silver skin.

I trace the rough edge

with a finger I don't own,

thinking how this borrowed car

holds my quiet damage

like a passenger I never invited.

Engine hums low, forgiving,

but that dent tells a story

I’m not sure I want to repeat.

Fluorescent ghosts flicker

on scratched metal,

waiting for me to drive away

and pretend it never happened.