It felt like we were floating. Especially when you'd laugh or when I'd stumble over the sounds you made as I grabbed your waist tightly. Those plastic orange bottles were our entire universe. Sometimes you'd steal them from your mothers purse, and laugh at how nervous I got that she'd notice. But then I'd take the gift that the bottles brought with them, and lay in bliss as my paranoia subsided.
Next summer, you got bottles of your own, only these weren't orange. We started referring to it as prescribed elixir. You poured two spoonfuls of the dark liquid into a soda bottle, and offered me my freedom. I took it without hesitation, and ran away with you that night.
Two days later, my car broke down at 4 am while you sang yourself to sleep in the back seat, your song slowly killing the light in my eyes with every verse.
I pushed the car into a ditch and shook you awake.
We walked for three miles that night, until we found ourselves at a truck stop on the border of the next city. I watched as you pushed your food around your plate slowly, as if you were painting with it. You asked me where I thought we'd be happy, and I told you I wasn't sure.
You walked over to the payphone outside of the diner and called your aunt to pick us up, pretending to sob into the receiver.
When you hung up, you asked if I knew where home was. I pointed to the direction of our parents house, but you just shook your head.
We waited in silence to be picked up, the only sound was your breathing competing with mine.
YOU ARE READING
Academy Of American Bullshit
PoetryCollection of poetry, parts of short stories, and the occasional rant written by an artist who is angrier than she'd like to admit.
