ARRvol34 master reduced - Flipbook - Page 16
Twenty-Seven
I never get my license. I imagine whiting out, crashing my car,
dying, taking others with me.
It’s not worth it, is it? I agree with myself.
Still I:
Ride roller coasters. stand on balconies. Wait near the curb to
cross the street. Drink. Ride a bike. Cut with sharp knives. Wear high
heels.
Flame bursts from my lighter.
I might:
Flail and drop and smolder with my head cracked and legs pointed
wrong. Fall underneath a car; create a killer out of an innocent.
Drop with Fireball lingering on my tongue, off a barstool or with
other Friday night drunks or walking home alone.
Smash my head open without a helmet, or twist my neck with
one.
Impale my finger, my palm, my foot, my belly.
Break an ankle falling, maybe two.
I might survive—or die—any combination of disasters can come.
8
I light my cigarette. The cherry burns bright.
