The church. Flowers. Spit. Bibles. Gold crosses. Dirt. Dead bugs.
A boy kneels and prays for our souls.
We danced twirled laughed.
Plucked flowers and threw them.
The Italian boy sat on the altar with Sev/Sex and another (was it Dimitri?)
Sissi stands at the pedestal next to the flowers.
You present her with a flower a single pink rose.
You almost steal the cross at the altar but are guilted into returning it.
You are mad. You have the flu. Your English professor keeps following you with his eyes. You took medication you shouldn’t have and you drank a shit ton of alcohol.
You’re not drunk nor buzzed but you might as well be.
Someday you’ll write about this without reservation.
Maybe this is the moment your mother gave up on your bastard bitch self?
It certainly has not/never helped.
She hated you.
And not in the way you would have liked.
No rage or disappointment accompanied the confession.
No. It was cold. Indifferent. You a stranger.
It wasn’t even hate. Mother couldn’t/wasn’t even invested enough/willing to give you that.