Teen Angel
That year, everyone had your same name,
but spelled it with an "S". Black beauties
in baggies at the bottom of your purse.
A 28-year-old boyfriend. Your whispers
that my bangs made me look retarded.
I watched you break the mirror in your
locker with your hands, then stare at
the tiny blood like it was something
new. Drunk in the backseat of my car
on the way to a party. A handful of aspirin.
Some kind of song, that summer, with your
name over and over. I never knew how to
look at you, quite, one eye fixed just
a finger's breadth to the left of the other.
1 comment:
I liked this. I'd like to know what other pieces involve this person from your past. Always a sucker for narrative. This though functions entirely in terms of feeling. I feel that. But I do have the curiosity. What happens next.
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