just like her

November 14, 2011
By Morganne Elkins GOLD, Edgecomb, Maine
Morganne Elkins GOLD, Edgecomb, Maine
18 articles 0 photos 2 comments

The ninety cent bottle
of congested glitter rests
in my palm.
I crack open the lid
and try not to care as I peer
down its neck
at the diluted polish.
Throw it away, mom commands.
Last time I saw you,
before our fight,
you had spread it,
carefully over my nails,
one stroke,
thumb, two–
while your strawberry hair
teased the bottle
and stuck to your wet nails
that I had just painted.
Now, I cram the wand
down the bottle,
and rummage
for one last drop of chemical liquid.
I smear the glue
over my hands–
pinky, one.
Thumb, two,
and climb out of the car,
slipping the bottle back
where it belongs,
in the side pocket
of the car door,
on its way to the trash.

i ring the doorbell,
my fingers still wet.
hello? you answer,
but you are different now,
your hair’s short,
your clothes are––
all rips and tears, with lace
peeping through.
you glance at me, then walk away,
a graffitied message
across your butt.
you used to call girls
who wore that kind of clothes
pathetic and sluts, but now,
what would that make you?
i start to step inside, but
you sashay back and frown at me
like there’s nothing left to say.
you slam the door
in my face, as if i,
in my jeans and boston hoodie,
no eyeliner, just mascara
am a part of yourself
that you cannot ever return to.

Sarah? I call, once more,
and Issie barks at the door.
I’ll wait outside, I yell,
what did i do?

ready or not there i come
want me to or not i’ll still be your friend.
miss me or not

i don’t care.
the car picks up speed.
i wonder if you care.
and i crank down the window,
and reach my arm out.
i open my fingers
and feel
ninety cents of my life
scattering glass
and glitter
over the asphalt.
i don’t look back.

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