We try to be the girls in the back of the classroom with
blush left over from the night before, furtive when our
dads stumble home from work, but we’ve come this far
as canny and precocious and barefaced. We sound like
a chorus of clicking pens and nail files, chattering over
$10 wine purchased with a fake Louisiana license that
your mother said would only trick the bouncer if he was
legally blind in ten states. We have Ella on in the corner,
crooning with Louis and the band, and detonate one
bomb after another: my mom dreams in Hillary
conspiracy theories, everyone lied about that green
juice bullshit, we each kissed a girl this year but nobody
knows if the smoking gun is at the dinner table with us.
We spear cheap marshmallows on wooden skewers
and dip them in chocolate, grown up campfire treats,
until you mistake your cigarette for dessert and
tap the double burner full of ash. Better in there
than in your lungs, we all shriek as we light up another.
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