i knew a french girl in highschool. she lived in my best friend's attic.
(her name was chloe.)
chloe had hair made of stars and eyes of curious raindrops kissing the asphalt.
she stood as if there was nothing but now. she spoke with her hands. she talked loud like she wasnt afraid.
(she wasnt.)
i often caught her smoking her stepfather's blunts from his bedroom dresser. she would lay in bed with a lazy ring of smoke around her like a halo and a porno magazine in her hands.
(and i would swear that she was god.)
chloe skipped classes, hooked up, smoked pot. i wondered if she was always like that or if it was just because she was out of town.
we did donuts in her stepmom's car at three am with school the next day. we drank my fathers expensive bourbon and laid on the hood of the car and talked about the stars.
(maybe that's where my love for the stars stems from.)
I held her hair back while she threw up into a plastic bag on the side of the highway that night.
(in the passing headlights she looked like an angel.)
she was a liar.
(but when she spoke it was like honey, frosting; sugary, sweet.)
she was sweet enough to lie, cute enough to be cunning.
im sure she did something to make that dog mad.
(even if she didnt, she had it coming, didnt she?)
chloe's funeral was on a sunday.
i couldnt make it.
(or, really, i didnt want to go.)
that dog mauled my chloe on a thursday afternoon. she was wearing the silver charm bracelet i bought her when she died. she was buried in it.
she had it coming. she was a whore. good riddance.
im sorry, chloe.
i shouldve come to your funeral.
i hate you, chloe.
(i love you, chloe)
you mustve known. surely you were able to tell.
the shared blunts, the donuts in your stepmom's car, the secret glances and stolen kisses on drunken nights.
i hate you, chloe.
(i miss you, chloe)
its better that youre buried.
(sorry, chloe.)