Author: Audrey Bearss
Were we special? No, oh no. We were forgotten, in the backwoods of the South doomed to community colleges and thrift store jeans. Yet we were perfect to each other. We drew on our eyeliner way too thick in dirty mirrors with an image of Joan Jett pulled up on somebody's cracked iPod in the corner to compare; as we crowded the tiny church bathroom well past maximum capacity. Pictures of some summer romance tucked in CD cases hidden in our book bags to trade. Dollar Tree lunches shoved down before the football smacks someone in the face. Amoung the dead of the cemetery we sit. Telling them our stories and imaging who they were. Homecoming queens, nerds, and rockers. Sprawled out on hot hoods as The Rolling Stones invade the parking lot and three chicks pound the diesel truck's hood in rhythm cause we're too young to drive and too bored to go inside. Ripped away by the month of May, only to be remember when a leg from a wreck goes numb, an Algebra I formula appears, or a tattered old guitar magazine is found in the depths of a closet.