Snacks Are a Curse (Desert Blues Cut)

Dawn bleeds across the highway, top down, engine low. That kind of silence only follows places you don’t go. No words, just wind and highway, no prayers, no alibi. Bob glows soft in the backseat, and Kevin sleeps like he never asked why. She drives that Chevelle into the morning light and the wheels keep time like a slow heartbeat. That Chevelle hums soft beside her, while the desert air won’t let her sleep. She said goodbye to paperwork somewhere back at Sector C, and hello to a glowing snail, and whatever Kevin is. They’re curled in blankets like stories she never meant to write. She should be alone, but she’s not. Snacks are a curse, snacks are a curse, every sweet little shortcut makes the dark feel worse. She said she wouldn’t care again, that was rehearsed, but she’s driving into dawn with them and the truth still hurts. Snacks are a curse, and the desert never asks why. Kevin mumbled in his sleep back there, some nonsense word in the warm night air. Bob glowed soft like a dashboard light, and for one small second, she felt alright. A smile flickered quick, then it slipped away, but it stayed in the car like the smell of rain. Snacks are a curse, snacks are a curse, they bring chaos in pawprints, in glowing trails, in dust. She says she’s done, but drives anyway, cause sometimes the curse is the only thing that stays. And the desert never asks why. Out here in the warmth, with the desert breathing slow, she lets the road do the thinking, lets the sky say what she won’t. And when Bob stirs in his sleep and Kevin snorts like a gremlin dreaming, she almost smiles. Almost. Snacks are a curse, snacks are a curse, but so is silence, so is leaving, so is letting go. She drives into the dawn with a snail, a stray, and the only peace she knows. This is the family chaos built, and for now, that’s enough. And the desert never asks why.