Sarah Was Sixteen
Sarah is sixteen and she is known
for slamming her curse words
and petite body into
empty bathroom stalls, and
eagerly, and always
telling me about her many boyfriends.
She throws back cigarette smoke
like long lost wishes.
I am eight-years-old,
and it is late Friday night
when she comes home
smelling like cheap cologne and red wine.
She stumbles into our bedroom,
wrapping her arms around
my tiny torso.
“I just need a hug,”
is all she says.
Her lips are chapped,
one eye is swollen,
there is blood on her sweater,
and soon she is sobbing.
I am as small as a prayer,
as she wraps herself around me,
tightening, like she wants to disappear
in the folds of my gown.
She falls asleep
on my lap,
as I sing her the only
lullaby I know.
Sarah is thirty
and I am twenty-two.
She dismisses it all
with a wave of her hand.
A cigarette hangs limp
from her fingertips.
"You probably don't even
remember that night..."
is all she says.
I let her believe what she wants,
knowing it's her plea to forget, but
I still note the sadness
in her eyes.
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