Miles is a slut. There's nothing wrong with him being a slut, but I don't want to lose my virginity to a guy who goes through three women a week. Not if he's going to forget my name the way he forgot that other girl's name.
The ball is in my court. I keep it there. Miles and I are friends by association. That's all.
Late Thursday night, I get home particularly exhausted. I don't have the energy for homework. I collapse in bed and turn on the radio instead.
KROQ does its usual Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, 90s and 00s rock thing. Then it's his song, In Pieces. It still tears me apart. It still presses every single bruise.
Three weeks now.
Can't sleep.
Gaping hole in my chest
shows no signs of recovery.
That word, a joke, you laugh.
"Running away again, kid?"
A minute here
and then you're gone.
I close my eyes, willing my thoughts to go anywhere but that awful memory.
It doesn't work.
I'm in that hospital room, watching doctors try to save my sister. I can see her blue lips, feel her cold hands. They're freezing, no grip, no signs of life at all.
Lights out.
Can't sleep.
Heavy head,
but no one else can see.
(No one ever did).
A lost cause still,
worse than before.
No signs of recovery.
She's dying. I watch her die again and again. The same stupid dream I have every night. The reason why I can't allow myself a single minute of free time. Because my thoughts go back to her and all the ways I failed her.
An opiate overdose.
I had no idea.
How could I have had no idea?
That word, a joke, you laugh.
"Running away again kid?"
A minute here