Sometimes Time Moves

It's so hard to be happy, lately.  I'm fucking confused, my hands are hitting the steering wheel in sync with the rhythm but there's nothing coming out of the speakers, so I keep hitting it, hitting it, hitting the wheel again and again, waiting to feel something against my palms.  Waiting to feel something other than apathy, other than the dull force of an object coming into contact with the bruised insides of my hands.  I can't see the speedometer but I'm assuming that it's telling me to slow down, to take the long way home.  Clear my head of all the inconsistencies, the chatter that tells me I was never worth it, I made it all up, the misplaced trust and nights spent writing about you while you're living a world apart.  I can't lie about it anymore, you're still inside of me, and I can't give you up... as hard as I try.  I keep pounding this beat into the steering wheel, into the pavement through the soles of my shoes, into my pillow with insufficient fists clenched tight.  I'm a mess, I'm nothing you're interested in anymore, I wouldn't want to deal with me either.