Freedom.

Here is a story I’ve told no one else.

My little brother drank himself to death.

He was eleven.

There is a field behind my house.

He and his friend P.J. stole two bottles of vodka from P.J.’s uncle.

By the time they found them, the bodies were cold.

I don’t tell anyone, ever.

Instead, I tell them about the trailer with the broken steps and peeling paint.

I tell them about working at Burger King every night until midnight so my mom could pay rent. She works too.

I tell them about my older sister who married my ex-stepfather the day she turned eighteen.

I am no longer ashamed of where I am from, because I am long gone.

One morning, I woke up and realized my roommate had vomited all over the floor.

I stepped around the puddles of rancid stomach acid and went to class.

This is my life now.

I eat salads for lunch.

I run on the treadmill. Five miles. Every day. I’m getting faster.

I have a boyfriend. He doesn’t hit me.

I get good  grades. I have always gotten good grades, but no one makes fun of me for them anymore. Instead, my adviser told me I had talent. I can be proud of myself. I am proud of myself.

I don’t go home for Christmas anymore. I spent last Christmas at my boyfriend’s house. On Christmas morning, I called home, but the phone number was no longer in service.

Now.

I can be somebody.

 

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About mayafishsticks

Since I turned 20, it's all gone downhill.
This entry was posted in Poetry, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Freedom.

  1. Michael says:

    At first I wondered if this was nonfiction. It was chilling. Now I’m pretty sure the speaker isn’t you. It’s still chilling. Well written, sister.

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