Slow motion reverse,
can't stop
and I know it,
kills me inside;
don't wish I'd died…
but maybe.

photographic memory
deceiving me,
it's hell—
sort of.

Pain delights,
in truth,
but please don't tell
my mother,
I deserve this
more than anyone.

Red diagonals,
I remind of kindergarten;
pick out shapes inside my skin,
educate a child,
what's the harm?

No casualties,
just a bit of sanity
I didn't really need,
and of course
I miss familiarity,
though that was going anyway—
not so permanent,
but still.

Oil slicks on wet asphalt,
traffic cones imperious,
seven, eight, nine flashing lights
in pairs or triplicate.

I'm scared,
alone and guilty
of this inconvenience,
a few contusions growing,
slowly numbing me.

Don't scream,
just drive past,
laugh at that poor girl
standing in a ditch
with tears all down her back;
she'll resent,
but you won't know it.

Just another accident.