He hides his bottles
In a drawstring bag beneath the bed
The twin
Dressed in Pottery Barn Kids and Buzz Lightyear sheets.
He’d be insecure
But she tells him it’s cute
As she slips her body under the covers
They are wrapped up in teenage hormones and spaceship quilts.

The two curl up in self-consciousness
And a midst of boozy breaths.
Toes dangling off the edge
Of the bed he outgrew when he passed 5’10,
Feelings of maturity and invincibility run through their pubescent bodies.
More potent than the alcohol in their veins.

They are consumed by a high
That sends them worlds above the constellations on his bedspread.
But the honk of her mother’s minivan cuts through the atmosphere.
A sign that maybe
They’re not as grown up as they thought.