Beated Up

By Samantha Simon

12th grade

Beated Up

When the sun rises over the cold cold ground it is all too bright on the snowbanks.

the measurable intention of my obsession, opulent icicles, murder weapon:

She drags me to her den and spills my guts across the floor to watch me thank her for the learning opportunity. It’s miserable. It’s misandry. 

Jack suggests an alibi, imaginary friend stealing the spoons from the kitchen drawer and away to the upstairs bedroom with a lighter. we sit on the windowsill and commute to nowhere to

those scholars in the streets, strung out and sexless and sermonizing what Jack said that we should listen. He’s a great Romantic, no good at romance, would shank me in an instant by the train tracks if I didn’t understand. 

but i eat like a rabbit and need words like a fish out of water so we get along just fine, i’m light for the road and wonder where in his head am i 

and we trace the maps down the backroads and Jack hangs his head out of the window like a puppy dog with oval eyes and much less soft ears. 

We get along just fine. 

We love crazy girls. We love bad music. We love drug addicts, and hate to watch them go violently into the harsh light of dawn. 

We appreciate subtlety. Masters of silence, two big talkers, ethereal observers and the 

prettiest anthropologists you’ll ever meet in a gas station. 

He crowns me with laurels for the sailboat ride and rests on my cranium, 

whispers congratulations.