She were fifteen, got a present in exchange for a bed to sleep in for the night, and she were done gone – in a couple of months, that is. She weren’t beautiful; waxy limbs like Jesus decided to steamroll her, and lips that bled vulgarities.
Ahahaha-ahaughhaughhaughaha-AHAHAHA.
She be laughing like a deaf pig thrashing for its last breath. I remember it like the smell of wilted flowers back in her hometown. She forgot to water them; they died, too.
I remember the taste of her mouth. The moans.
Oh, Charlie, Oh Charlie, OhCharlieOhCharlieOh…Chaaaarrrllliiieeee.
I’d tease her, run a finger marred by life along her forearm. She’d shiver and roll her tongue around in her mouth. Wishing. Wondering.
She weren’t no angel, ‘course she weren’t. But she weren’t no devil’s incarnate, either. Her hands would clench like she be hiding something in her palm, but then she’d open them and all she’d be holding was scars.
We sat on the hill, humming and dwelling over a life we never had. Pretending to laugh, looking away at the secrets we saw swelling in each other’s cheeks. And then watching the sky, she’d be silent.
You ain’t tasted death if you haven’t seen the sun set.
