Two Punks In Love

Control And Lack Thereof

Kat

I can't breathe.

Not unless I snap the rubber band first.

Snap. Breathe.

Snap. Breathe.

Snap. Breathe.

Snap. Breathe.

I know what this is. This is a panic attack.

I haven't had one in years.

Not since Ashlynn was in a dark room with Cam and half her head shaved.

Wait. No.

Not true.

Not since New Orleans.

Not since the only time I ever took Ecstasy.

Not since Trashlynn was news to me.

I grip my knees.

I lean against the seatbelt.

I will not snap.

I will not snap.

I will not snap.

I think about what Colin and I looked like, sleeping in the chair.

I can picture it.

I used to have hundreds of pictures of us.

Me in his lap.

His hands on me.

Casual in the picture.

Charged in real life.

Him—wanting, hoping.

Me—liking the limits I placed more than his touch.

His need.

My control.

That's what I liked about me and Colin.

I had control.

I never had control of what I feel for Trace.

He could do anything to me.

He could call me at two in the morning.

He could kiss me and reject me.

He could save my sister.

He could leave me.

He can still do anything to me.

He can love me.

He can fuck me.

He can fuck me over.

He can save my sister.

He can leave me.

I can picture it.

I have hundreds of pictures of me and Trace.

The photo shoots he hates.

The Instagram shots he hates.

The godlike rock star.

The reluctant celebrity.

Sunglasses. Leather. Disdain.

Me, his girl.

Draped around him.

Hanging on.

Watching him while he looks away.

Never at the camera.

Never at me.

Always away.