Exit

We drove down the mountain and back to where I was going to leave. When we got there, I looked at a pole in the parking lot, buckled by a rushed exit.

 

The day we drove down the mountain, your mom hummed and you were wearing green pants that I always thought looked hot on you and you were nauseous. You went through the motions of nauseous people who don’t want to cause a scene but would also rather fling themselves off the side of the road than still be nauseous.

 

You looked through the front window. I looked at you, wanting to fix this.

 

That day, you were nauseous so we sat in a field and I braided your hair into tiny strands. I tried to slip a daisy into one of them because that’s how I saw you. The girl with daisies in her hair. The girl who could drive for miles, could ride her bike to the end of the earth, laughing, ten feet above molten sea, ripped tights, green t-shirt, “what now?”

 

I broke the microwave and you didn’t get mad. I got my period wrapped around you in bed and you didn’t get mad. You walked me to the gas station. We smirked at truckers, holding tampons and wheat bread. I told you I didn’t know how I felt. You didn’t get mad, but I wanted you to.

 

We stopped the car because you thought you were going to puke. I thought I should hold your hand as we walked down the sidewalk. I didn’t because I thought it would make you more nauseous. Dunkin Donuts in the distance. Rottweiler barking desperate in our faces.

You bent your head, summoned a wretch,

 

and nothing.

 

 

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