The best worst summer ever

I think it started in April. That was when spring tasted like summer, when spring tasted like finality and goodbye, when spring tasted like brown sugar over a low fire, like caramel on a melting ice cream cone, like a gown and a cap in a month

it would taste like paint, like the inside of my house, like the dust on my desk because I’m never in my room, like the walls of the kitchen because I’m never in my room, like my favorite chair with a dip in it the shape of the weight of my legs swinging back and forth beneath the seat because I am never in my room, like only honey nut cheerios and milk because I can’t be bothered to wait for the eggs to cook, like dish water because I don’t drink the milk because I don’t like the crumbs, like going hungry because the cereal box is empty, like going hungry because we ran out of milk yesterday, like going hungry until lunch because there is nothing I want to eat in the house, like going hungry until four because everything I want to eat is not in my house, like going hungry until seven because my best friend lives in a castle on the other side of the mountain of streetlights and interstates

like being fifteen and all I want to do is drive, like being sixteen and not knowing how to drive, like being fourteen and learning how to drive, like being fourteen and blood, like being fourteen and airbags because I hit the wrong pedal, like being fourteen and learning how trees don’t move, like being eighteen and learning why trees don’t move, like being eighteen and being a tree, like being eighteen and braking slowly, like being eighteen and breaking very slowly, like being eighteen and looking at screens, like being eighteen and looking at people on screens, like being eighteen and looking only at people on screens, like being eighteen and wondering how people can be that happy all the time, like being eighteen and never getting asked anything, like being eighteen and never getting asked are you okay, like being eighteen and never being asked you wanna hang out, like being eighteen and not being seen for a while, like being eighteen and no one caring, like being eighteen and wondering if it’s them or if it’s me, like being eighteen and being abandoned, like being eighteen and sitting in my bed and staring at the wall until three in the morning, like being eighteen and not getting up until noon, like being eighteen and hating my room, like being eighteen and hating my house, like being eighteen and begging, like being eighteen and saying yes to everything, like being eighteen and staying the night, like being eighteen and salt water pools, like salt water pools at two in the morning, like two in the morning and earphones, like two in the morning and Spotify, like two in the morning and seventy songs in a playlist of songs that make me feel sad, like seventy songs that make me feel sad and aren’t supposed to make me feel sad, like laughing it off, like seventy songs that make me feel alone, like seventy songs in two in the morning, like sneaking back to bed at two in the morning, like asking for a ride home in the morning, like getting home in the afternoon and wanting to be anywhere else, like wanting to be anywhere else and never going anywhere, like never wanting to go home again.

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