eleven
the sun hits you like a
tidal wave, open, close, eyes
like a switchblade, in & out of
light, dark, &
you down the day like a flat
energy drink,
crashing in the end.
bones in the doorway bleached white and
with beads and lights and bottles hanging from her
and she's looking at you but you can't tell and
her eyes aren't there until you realize she's
not dead just
gone
and it's like
screaming
and crying
and calling out
from the back
of an old pickup
truck full of
used ammunition.
and he says
"baby, what
color is the
sky?" (and i
can't answer,
because it's still
all black&white
haze today,
and kid that's
not a color.)
worthless words that don't mean
anything
even though i wish
(only wish)
to remember them,
i keep forgetting,
regretting,
them all.
once upon a time she painted
blue and red and gold and gray
flowers all with yellow centers
just like in children's drawings
such a shame she's not a child.
you look like
a cross between
an idiot and a
hobo with your
button-down
plaid shirt and
your cheap
headphones
over your stupid
hair and the music
only you've heard of
blaring loud enough
for everyone
else to hear,
and all i can think is
thank god you
don't have one
of those "hipster
mullets."
we'll write our names in charcoal on trees and
in white across chalkboards
because as long as
we can read we'll remember
everything.
skinny black dress
blue eyes
blond hair
and dots her name with
hearts like it's going out of style
because it is
and she's always in style
pretty prom queen every year
not anymore
so she steps out of her limo for the last time
because now /she's/ going out of style
like bell-bottom jeans and big hair
she's going so far she'll be
gone.
and just like an
old black&white photograph;
she was all greens and blues but
now she's just
sepia tone.
she glared at him for a moment.
"douchebag."
stunned silence.
"haha! i'm kidding! you're alright." she smiled warmly, and he couldn't breathe.
a little voice rang in his head, his brother's.
"i told you sideburns were cool."
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