once round and rumbling through fields
it wasn't the last tire - my tire -
but the first that killed you;
it wasn't the last phone call
but first that started the demise.
how I, also armor-clad, didn't resist
but instead flattened, pancaked,
myself into his road grooves -
while he, also, pressed me into the street.
it was my shell that cracked first.
yet, at the beginning, I was thankful
for him breaking down my walls; now
he is the one dead while I waddle on.
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