When they told me,
I politely dismissed myself
from my classroom and knelt
over the toilet. They said
she got mixed up
with the wrong crowd—
wrong boy.
I tried not to think
of the way he used to tug
on her shirt when they’d
line up in the hall,
or the tiny hearts decorating
the edges of her notebook or
the lingering youth in her giggle,
or the video— I can’t think
of the video. I can
watch movies now.
When the music quickens
as a boy circles a victim’s sleep-
trapped body, I don’t
close my eyes. I can watch legs
snap open like fallen twigs,
my breath still slides steady
down my throat. I never
think of the night I was drowned
in alcohol, so he couldn’t hear
my objections bubbling
through the fragile surface.
I never think of my sister,
spread in a sterile gown.
Not at first anyway,
or when I do, at least
I never think of her
or her 6th grade notebook
still safe in my drawer.
Now, I can walk by them kissing
in the parking lot without
fire building in my throat.
Somewhere inside me,
there are sirens begging
to wail.
I want to tell her that it’s okay
to say no, but I’m afraid
she’ll smell the swallowed
protests on my breath.
Photo by Element5 Digital on Unsplash
