Tell The Devil I’m Driving

“Some women fear the fire. Others become it.” — R.H. Sin

Tell the Devil I’m Driving
by MissT

I was born into battle—
Not the kind with swords,
but sharp tongues and slammed doors,
cold silences that screamed louder than rage.

She called herself a mother.
I called her the storm.
A hurricane in human form,
ripping through my childhood
like it was drywall and soft skin.

She didn’t raise me—
she razed me.
Tore down every ounce of self-worth
then asked why I was always bleeding.

I stitched myself shut
with grit and grief.
Learned how to stand
even as she cut me off at the knees.

Love, from her, came with terms:
Shrink. Obey. Disappear.
And I did—
until I didn’t.

Now the door is locked.
The number blocked.
The bridge is dust
and I set the damn match.

She howls from a distance,
plays the victim on a stage
I no longer step foot on.

Let her rot in the echo chamber
of her own lies.
I’ve stopped dancing for her approval—
I’m too busy learning to fly.

One day,
her voice will vanish for good.
And I will not mourn—
I will exhale.

That day will taste like
freedom.
Like silence that doesn’t sting.
Like peace without apology.

Because I am not broken.
I am the wreckage reassembled,
the fire she couldn’t smother,
the storm that survived her storm.

So tell the devil—
I’m not riding shotgun.

I’m at the wheel now.
And I’m not looking back.