Bald tires

skidding over hard ice chapped pavement steering without hands
on a Friday night and the only lights I see are blue and red,
not a blazing white claiming my hand like I'd expected.
Not something beautiful, just something cruelly memorizing
that somehow belonged to me at that moment.    

flashing lights and black clothed arms pulling me through the ragged
metal which grasped at my body like a heaving mother with a dead child.
Ignorantly tearing at my already broken frame as if it would somehow
pull my body back together wits and skin somehow intact again.

the blood on the ground can't all be mine can it? And she didn't
go through the window did she? Why must I wake for just enough
time to experience what I created? Is it just to make my fate
feel deserved or to rapture what there was left to this shell.
I can't stay in a place where nothing is cleansed or shaken out
or even considered a mistake just a common expression of someone
unworthy. Someone like me.

a face with no hands driving a car.