death by paper cut

gas station prowl

i am seventeen and i am stuck between the aisles. not sure if this is a euphemism or i am just weary of a good time.

i heard in the back of the gas station, pineapple Fanta rotting my teeth. stuck under the ceiling fan, holding my breath as if one gasp would let them know it was me.
"he raped a girl, didn't you hear?" the boy smirks, "played a game of pool and she was at a loss/ of her shoelaces and dignity." a laugh. "i wonder if they're still digging the lily's up from the carpet. that, and the blood."

and you need to know this:
justin had very quick hands. like a lot of boys i have met and will continue to meet. except he promised his weren't dirty. a healing hand. a prayer. sometimes i wonder what he was like as a child. when did his humanity turn unbecoming of him. and when was the moment i forgot my words, twisting inwards and leaving me in mid july? i want him to know he left a vacancy inside me. i want him to know i don't forgive him. i want him to know the blood on his hands is still sitting perched up on the creases under my eyes, and slinking through my sinuses.

maybe, i need another year.
and i will always end the story in my scream. not the way i whispered, i don't know whats happening.
or how it was finalized in a laugh. a chuckle from a boy will forever be incased in me.