Rose lights up a Marlboro
and takes a drag,
one hand on the wheel,
staring into the gray sky that holds its
breath (holding back the rain)
like I'm doing right now.
Zeppelin plays on the radio and I
lean over the gap between us that's bigger than a precipice.
I try to say her name,
but I choke on my words.
"What?" She says, looking over at me.
Her eyes are lovely. They don't look like alcohol yet.
"Nothing," I say, looking away.
She's too old for 16, I think.
She's like one of those child musicians that grows up before they're supposed to, like Joan Jett, whom she idolizes.
Maybe she would have been a Joan Jett if she was born 20 or 30 years ago -
Maybe she would have been a Joan Jett now if she wasn't so afraid of letting people hear her sing or hear her play,
like the act of creating music is associated with the creation of shame.
She knows what it's like to look at her father and see whiskey painting his eyes hollow.
She knows how to look at herself in the mirror and pray her eyes don't begin to look the same way.
The smoke from her Marlboro makes the air look like it's dancing.
She smiles at me,
turns the radio up, and leans out the window,
one hand on the wheel.
I hope she never lets go.
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...
