juicebox love affair
silica gel: “do not eat,” throw away,
not suitable for consumption.
kids like us would down our capri suns to cover the taste
of sour-tasting, chalky pills too big to swallow, and
our tiny lungs would soak up the toxicity of the second-hand
addiction that permeated the bodies around us.
we hate authority only because we’re still small enough
to fit so snugly in their palms,
but also because no one can tell us what to do.
we call bullshit in whispers, because if we shouted it
like every band-aid covered bone in our body meant it,
we would get punished for cussing.
we hide our parents’ money in our clenched fists
so our friends think we can afford to smoke too,
we melt in the summer like the cds
we always played in the car on road trips.
our thighs don’t burn any more from the
hot metal slides at the elementary school a block
away, they burn because of what happened after the
last scars of childhood faded and
our smooth skin was made rough
by years of a childhood that never happened
like it should have.
Sarah Uhlman is an only slightly rebellious teen who mostly writes at ungodly hours of the night in her room. She loves bad horror movies, good poetry, and beautiful strangers.