That night, I was seventeen.
I was impulsive. I was terrified.
The air was chilly and I was alert with anticipation.
Fast forward two hours later –
I was holding my best friend in the backseat of a car I didn’t arrive in and
I was shaking,
But not from excitement.
All I could hear in my mind was her saying, over and over again, blurring the edge of words and clutching my shirt,
“I’m so sorry. I love you. I don’t want you to think I’m like my father. I’m not like my father.”
YOU ARE READING
What I Don't Say
RandomIn a series of poems, an unnamed narrator examines her best friend's addiction, her depression and sense of self, and what it is like to grow up when it seems like everyone she is surrounded by is falling apart. Containing elements of fiction and po...