My eyes are on the open door.
I want to move. I want to run.
You had bought it for me two months before,
because you never learned how to say that you were sorry.
Although I was never allowed to drive, because what does a woman know about a super car.
Triggers? Fear and frustration. I beg to differ.
I think I wanted the thrill and the sensation of an engine roar.
Things were clearer at ninety miles per hour,
and at ninety miles per hour I thought something I hadn’t before.
This is fedeltà.
This is what it is to be free.