we are young

A few weeks ago I started to listen to the radio again. There’s this song the plays- I’m sure it’s not a new song.

When it plays the scars on my arms freshen. A bullet collapses A’s face, another tears the tanned skin of M’s temple. I see C drunk fat and crying in a stained A-shirt, J curled in the fetal position in M’s closet, forearm cradled against his thin stiff chest. I see H collapse against her bed in grief. I see her back and neck, cool, confident, brown hair streaked with streetlight as she knocks and enters an anonymous doorway, immediately before the pigs kick it down guns raised. I see Brandon in the woods, smiling, as snow falls lightly. I see a frog jump into an open grave, the gleam of firelight on glass beer bottles, a small fire burning unevenly under a bridge.

I taste vodka, citric acid, H’s cunt and spit in my mouth as I vomit down my tits. I hold her hand weightless in the ocean. B’s braid falls stiff and straight between shoulder blades, the tightness of her skin drawn across chin and cheekbones as she turns to smile at me, the first time I saw her after she was raped.

I see the 13 year old girl that I was or wasn’t drunk and getting fucked by a 21 year old man in the woods, blood and leaves later lining the crotch of my panties like a new brand of post-deflowered pad.

I see H reach for me underwater. Smoke, polaroids curling to ash, fishnets bagging around trembling knees, weak headlights illuminating a two-lane country road surrounded by vacant fields. H laughing, my sister looking down.

This is the song.

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