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I'M A CAR WRECK IN WINTER

I'M A CAR WRECK IN WINTER

i drowned in the shallows of his collarbones 

     as dawn coaxed over the treetops, furred in 

          needles and the carcasses of birds nests. he 

               dyed me with blue eyes, shoulders slouched 

forwards, cyclamen folded against the snowed-in 

     sun, a stray cat curled up in the shadows of dumpsters. 

          like peter pan, he had that daydream hidden in the 

               indentation of his right dimple. i wish i could 

remember when my name in his mouth 
      became a threat—the sharp sting of a slap that 
          never went away. he left a car wrecked in the 
               woods, my heart mangled somewhere between 

the frayed seatbelt and the center console, my notebook 
      wedged beneath the car seat where he couldn’t find it. 
            sometimes, i wonder if i cared more about hiding it 
               than the wreck, the pocket of words i didn’t want

him to see so he wouldn’t find out that, compared 
      to my poems, i’m a husk—evaded gazes and harsh 
            laughter scraped with frostbit skin,
                  i’ve never written a poem i liked, 

never been with a person i loved. he was drunk on wine
      i could never afford. he called again because 
            he only liked to talk to me when wasted. snow in his hair, 
                  the impression of my smile on his fingertips, i thought

i would only ever feel safe upstate, but he took that away from 

     me too. cold mornings weigh on me, wet grave dirt on my chest. it’s still 

          there in the periphery, smeared with days of heat and melted ice. i 

               pour the canister of torn, blank pages and gasoline 

over the backseat, the leather caked in the words i’ve 
      lost again and again, sit in the front seat, the windshield 
            splintered with his smile and the one i never showed him. 
                  the notebook is still there but the flames hunger its

staled phrases just as easily as my skin, the blackened 
      edges curl in the wind, flake away all the words i’ve 
            ever written that i never liked but always loved.

 

 

 

 

 


Emma Deimling currently works as a writing tutor at the Ohio State University’s writing center. They have been published in numerous magazines, including Crow & Cross Keys and The Broadkill Review. She lives in Columbus, Ohio. You can find them on Twitter @EmmaDeimling.

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  • On Craft
    • Routines & Rituals
    • Crafting Identity
    • Mythos
  • In Conversation
  • Non-Fiction
  • Prose & Poetry
    • Issue #1: Alternate Endings
  • Reviews
  • Recommendations

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