i need my girl.

remember when you lost your shit and drove the car into the garden, you got out and said i’m sorry to the vines and no one saw it.

[bubbagumps]

i just killed my best friend.  and your worst enemy. same difference.

[lastpoets-blog]

vincent whitman.

He wanders the path of a habitual nomad, chasing couch after couch like other people chase dreams. Sometimes he stays, but never for long that is, because the man’s intolerable and so are other people. A mutual friend of a friend, it always starts out like that, the bridge being built of a couple of awkward smiles and the assurance that he’s out by week two. So far, he has never made it past day eight. The trailer park’s air breeds smoke and the smell of people rotting away in the sour broth of unfulfilled dreams and desires, an awful stench he feels himself covered in when he breathes in for just a little too long. They’re probably good people, his kind of people and if he wasn’t so caught up in roaming around he surely wouldn’t have the worst chances of making some new friends. Cigarette hangs from the corner of his lips until he hears the girl speak, probably underage, young and naive, looking for trouble and even though he loves the taste of the latter he’s positive he won’t like hers. ‘ Do you always talk to strangers? ‘, he questions, a response both a little annoyed and impertinent. ‘ You’re not. ‘, Vince answers the brunette’s question. ‘ You kinda look like a preppy. Not to be, impolite or anything. ‘

whether it’s suspicion or intuition, she can already hear the gears in his head turning to the exact positions that would lead to underestimating her. the lecture of speaking to strange men lurking around trailer parks, the mocking as he dissected high pony and carefully painted nails to be preppy and uptown and all the sorts of things that wouldn’t be lurking around these parts. “ it’s called being friendly, ” she informs him, flicking little bits of ash off her own picnic table. she doesn’t move to go closer to him, carry on a conversation from a more reasonable distance — still an entire table away, a barrier of stranger danger. so much for being grown up and fearless. “ i’m just shocked if you’re like, a new inductee to the sunny daze hall of fame that i haven’t made a FORCED appearance on your doorstep with a trailer-warming gift, is all. ” she fiddles with the pages of her book, leafing through them and running fingers over pages. shakespeare’s sonnets, highlighted and bookmarked meticulously, almost all of them memorised. maybe it is a little preppy, but there’s no way he can read them from all the way over there. “ i’m poor enough to live here myself, if that’s your implication. no deadbeat boyfriend or alcoholic dad hiding out somewhere until i go back to milkshakes at the diner. ” pause, and she bites down on her lip. “ HONESTLY, though, not trying to be a dick. we just ... don’t get a lot of new faces. ” there’s so rarely interaction outside of bright high school hallway smiles smelling of bubblegum and vodka filled water bottles, that she almost FORGETS she doesn’t need to hop onto the defense when someone blinks. 

[lastpoets-blog]

eduardo suárez.

     he’d made an attempt to minimize time spent at silhouette’s ; away from the brawl of the operation and closer to the brains. but old habits died hard, and he supposed he would too. ed would prefer it to be when he’s gray and old, though based on the life he’s chosen the outcome appeared bleaker with each passing hour. promises had been made to GET OUT : one of these days, it just never seemed to come. “ núñez, i can’t begin ‘ta tell ya much i hate the sound a’that. ” the older begins, attention switching from shot of bourbon, poured too early in the day to be justifiable, to a fellow viper. leaning back in leather chair, one which had seen better days and was doubtful to be replaced – sentimental value and all that – and he gives a nod. “ alright, let’s hear it, then. ”

fingers drum nervously against his leg, an old HABIT of younger years that he’d never quite kicked. starting as fear ( of his father, or of general gang activity ) and moving into anxious energy ( his first jobs, interactions with higher ups after one too many rash decisions ) — and now a symbol of excitement, amongst the times that luka is CONVINCED he’s come up with a genius idea. a way to push more product, some get rich quick scheme, a way to keep on the down low when the law was breathing down their neck — but now, he actually had something. not just a DESIRE to, moving entirely off the seat of his pants, off the cuff ideas and improvised remarks. this is serious business. “ this chick comes in ‘ere the other day, ” eyes watch ed carefully — even now, he’s ready for automatic refusal. “ telling me she wants me to put her pops six feet under. real piece of shit, too, from what i know. and the little lady’s a piece of work, i know she ain’t going to take no for an answer ... ” he can’t help it: a smirk, half smile and half created out of devious nature, spreads across tanned cheeks. “ you wanna know who this girl is, man? ”

[lastpoets-blog]

scarlett atkins.

     to be frank : scarlett atkins couldn’t care less for high school cheerleading. ivy league cheerleading alike. her poms’ retirement had little to do with the availability of spots in yale’s squad, and much to do with her own disinterest. it was a nice addition to an application and a useful tool to climb the social ladder … but passion was void and her exercise regiment now exclusively consisted of hot yoga. she didn’t need cheer, cheer needed her. so when she caught wind of perfected routines going tossed in the bin, it wasn’t her love for the sport that drove her back into the halls of sheffield high –– it was her pride. “ cut the chit-chat, lurch … ” arms cross against cashmere, and it appeared pleasantries where held back by a thin veil. “ i left the squad with enough routines to get you to NHSCC and back, ” they should be lucky, really, that she offered them a piece of her creativity and access to the work it created. after all, they were just names and positions to the older in the end. gratitude is what she should be given, not efforts erased. “ and you’re jeopardizing that – for what ? ” a laugh is stifled although just barely. if she had intended on faux politeness & friendship bracelets shared, she would’ve put on a better show. but scarlett atkins had never been pleasant, least of all to those she considered understudies. “ a cheap shot at originality ? stick to what you’re given, fallion … driving the team into the ground isn’t doing either of us any good. ”

jaw squares and fingernails dig into the flesh of her palms, fake acrylics hopefully not drawing blood. unlike one miss scarlett atkins: this was all bianca had. pom poms & cleats & mini skirts, posters plastered over the walls next to the lockers, sitting at the best table at lunch. there were no ambitions stretching beyond linoleum hallways — at least not any realistic ones. she wanted to go to hollywood, getting paparazzi photos snapped of her as she walked down the streets of los angeles. she wanted to attend oscar ceremonies and wear designer dresses and be notable enough to be liked. liked outside of the boundaries of sheffield, connecticut, outside of the boundaries of sunny daze, or her mother ( who, REALISTICALLY, when all was said and done and she was home for the day — was truly perhaps the only person in her life that was there to stay. ) “ what’s your game here, scout? REALLY. ” spine is already stiffened, and head is cocked to the side to bring at least a semblance of sarcasm to something that feels so painfully serious to her. this is her life now. not the girl’s standing in front of her, not the girls she can hear laughing from the locker room each time the door opens to send another one home. HERS. “ i get that legacy might have been a very close to home SAT vocab word for you, but even if it’s the only reason you got into yale, you don’t have one here. ” it’s pathetic, maybe, to pretend as if she’s so staunchly confident in meanness and backhanded comments. she’d never used to be like this. it just seems to come with the territory — or at least, with the desperation to dig your claws into it and keep it as yours, yours, yours. “ another ... what? two years are gonna go by ... and everyone that walked the halls with you is going to be LONG gone from here. and the only stake you’ll have in this place is your name on a shared plaque in a dusty ass display case no one gives second glance to. out with the old and in with the new, yeah? ” 

[lastpoets-blog]

scarlett atkins.

     thus far : what is planned goes, and the girl is working herself up to a POINT. but it’s not a topic, rather request, that can be sprung onto a stranger. and with that in mind, small talk is kept going. the man’s comment doesn’t roll off her back; & even if scarlett atkins was aware of her transparent character, assumptions made about herself were always amusing and she wasn’t one to allow them to pass her by without an added explanation. brows raised, and she offers him a laugh ; utterly fabricated, higher pitched and softer than what could be considered genuine. at least for scout, herself. “ and what is a girl like me ? ” defined eyebrow quirks, and a teenager rests a small-boned figure on the dirty surface of the bar. upon her return home, a shower was, most definitely, in place. “ if you must know … i happened to be in desperate need of a change of scenery. ” rather far from the truth but not far from realistic. didn’t every trust-fund baby have their moments of rebellion ? “ and what’s a better palette cleanser than … ” there are plenty of synonyms to describe the establishment found in, and none on the positive side. but she deliberately cuts a sentence short, feigning earnest conversation. “ let’s just say i am – diversifying my surroundings. ” beat. “ a vodka soda, s'il vous plaît ? ”

there’s a silence that lies between them not, even in the cacophony of the bar scene behind them. whoops and hollers of men unwilling to reel themselves in, the paid by the dollar giggles of the girls entertaining them. the clink of glasses, the thumping of music — and YET, he doesn’t speak. instead, hand is lifted to summon the bartender closer, and he turns to stare at her, studying the younger for a few moments. she looks out of place, and she knows she does — but he wonders of the DEGREE. if there’s AWARENESS that no confidence in the world would give louboutins a space in silhouettes, and that’s why he laughs, bitterly. “ they got rich bitches down here doing community service now? ” smoke is exhaled from his mouth, and in his facing towards her — scout’s general direction. “ if you’re lookin’ to report my ass to daddy for selling your college roommate oregano, you’ve got the wrong guy, princess. ” attention is turned, however briefly, to the bartender with the instructions of adding another whiskey and a vodka soda, for the lady to his tab. and then, finally, looking back on her, still lit cigarette discarded into the ash tray on dirty bartop. initials and threats and phallic images are carved into the wood, and he scrapes his fingers over them all absently as eyes flick back over to scout. “ you don’t look the type to show up any place without a cover charge. " it’s suspicion not even bothering to be thinly veiled, and he isn’t quite sure of what ( a sensation unfamiliar and unliked ) — a sting operation, an uptown girl pushing for a boyfriend’s coke addiction, a student knowing she’s close to drop out and wondering, briefly, if she’s got the ass to strip. he doesn’t know what to peg her as — ENIGMATIC, but in a way that frustrates more than it excites. 

[lastpoets-blog]

minoo pearce.

      truth be told, a genuine curiosity resided in a lanky frame. she wanted to know, and she wanted to understand. if not for the sake of offering her musical expertise, more like a disorganized albeit memorized vinyl collection, in return, then for the sake of finding out more about somebody in affiliation with the band. and not the member sitting before her. “ yeah … obviously ! ” she falls back in her chair, arms against over a flat chest. “ the question is, - who are you trying to sound like ? ” a pause, one that’s so fleeting that an answer is impossible to be spoken in its expanse. “ you’re all over the place. first, i thought, maybe, the ramones, but … then you went into grunge territory. like, really off-brand grunge. ” another pause, minoo giving the boy a second once-over. “ you a fan of pearl jam or somethin’ ? ”

he doesn’t know how to admit that any sort of executive decision on how they sound — that’s a little above his pay grade. not that he gets paid, even when the gigs land money in other members’ pockets. he likes to think he’s maybe in it for the passion of it all, but he ISN’T. it’s the sort of companionship that comes with making music together, friendship he would be hard pressed to find elsewhere, given rather frequently pointed out short-comings. and though maybe those are in fact pointed out by supposed friends ... — he clears his throat, not looking directly at the blonde for a few moments. “ i ... i like p-pearl jam. ” he can already tell that she’s the type that would call him out for being disingenuous if he mentioned he would really listen to anything, so instead: “ my favorite, is, ... uh, my favorite is th-the rolling stones. ” a nod of his own confirmation that despite a stutter, he DOES agree with his decision. 

[lastpoets-blog]

minoo pearce.

      bag already packed, as it always was : filled with essentials ranging from barely fresh clothing to stash given from her weekly pawnshop visits, and she’s out the door. it’s cold and slender legs stiffen minutes into the wait but she prevails, holding onto the promise of a quick escape. minoo longed for one more permanent, though. to the sunny state of california and the grand beaches of los angeles. where worries and mistakes can be washed to sea and far away from herself. hands are heated up with the warmth of her breath, palms rubbing together for friction. it is nothing like the rays of the west coast sun, but she can pretend. she’s awfully good at pretending. there’d been no way minoo would’ve been able to go on for so long without her creativity and the vivid imagination that came along with it. maybe she’d take the car to long beach ; live out of it, and off the art she creates. the roar of a car engine breaks her out of a daydreaming, and she rises from the porch. heart in her throat for the moment she suspects it to be her mother, and a sigh of relief manifesting in cloud before her when she realizes it isn’t. lengthy steps bring her directly in the arms of pippa, an embrace minoo could not have foreseen. a withdrawn personality indicates she should push a smaller girl away, to refuse the affection given. but she doesn’t. she caves and lanky arms find themselves holding her friend, was she, tighter. “ it’s no big deal, ” a laugh is fabricated through an equally forced smile, yet it fails to patch up her heart and the closeness only reenforces the heartbreak already felt. tears are fought off, time and time again. god, she was not about to cry in-front of philippa espina. but it’d been so long since the taller had felt herself being hugged and the sensation drives her close to the edge. “ really. ” she swallows, removing herself from the interaction before her emotions force themselves any closer to the surface. “ i’m fine, ” she tries again, for a chuckle but once more, it falls flat. “ it’s just … i – i’ll head to the, uh, the clinic in the morning and it’ll be like it never happened. ”

a frown is already burrowed in the smaller girl’s features as she steps back from minoo, and head is IMMEDIATELY shaken in a rejection of the brushing off of the entire situation. it’s typical — a method of non-coping the two generally share. but this time, it doesn’t seem to be something the younger is letting her get away with. “ uh, hate to break it to you, but it’s kind of a big deal. ” eyes flick over the blonde, as if she’s hunting for some sort of physical evidence of a crime not yet rearing its head. or BUMP.  CLEARLY, nothing there, so — she lowers her voice, grabbing mj’s arm and practically dragging her back to the car. “ abortions are like, expensive. and clinics get fucking BOMBED all the time. i saw it in the newspaper. ” partial lie: pippa didn’t see it, kevin pointed the article out in her seemingly ( to pippa, at least ) endless wealth of information. pippa hadn’t looked at a newspaper since she stopped reading the sunday comics. “ whatever, maybe you aren’t even preggo. we’ll do more tests at mine. ” her own door is opened as she climbs into the driver’s side, fiddling with the keys before turning them in anticipation of ignition. she pauses for a moment, thinking about SENSITIVITY. she wasn’t very good at it. so then, delicately: “ you holding up okay? ” a beat. “ i can give you money for it. or, like, vodka and a coat hanger. ”

[lastpoets-blog]

sawyer kinney.

     leave it to sawyer’s inebriated self to befriend equally buzzed strangers … she laughs, and an attempt at recollection is made. not so much tall, dark, and handsome as smart, freckled, and blonde. she saw the appeal, definitely, though perhaps not to the extent of ditching one’s friend alone at some bar. “ yeah, he’s cute, but … ” but maybe to that extent, after all. she would’ve at least given a HEADS-UP– except memories resurface of times where practice and family game-nights had been skipped for boys and all that they had to offer, which in hindsight wasn’t much. “ ugh, who am i to speak on the behalf morality, ” another sip of her drink taken. “ she so owes me, though, like BIG TIME. ” sawyer announces, as if the stranger had any influence over her friend’s future actions. “ sorry … totally just unleashed all my frustrations on you. i’m sawyer, by the way. ”

“ uh-huh. i hear you! it’s sisters before misters, all the way. ” barstool seat is abandoned to lean more over the counter, eyes still searching for the bartender to refill her drink. “ maybe that’s why i can’t get a date. ” she laughs, but it’s more drunken resignation than actual comedy. her very own sense of gallows humor, since god knows emma phillips isn’t exactly the type to laugh at the actual kind. but self-deprecation, especially in the love department — that makes more sense. “ i’m emma, by the way. and ! — an excellent frustrations listener. ” finally, money is placed in front of her in exchange for another long island iced tea — it’s a saturday night, after all. and once the bartender is out of sights again, she’s back to looking at sawyer, hand extended for  a handshake — politeness even in the face of being on the train to shit-faced. “ i’m gonna order us shots when he comes back. to sisterhood. ”

[lastpoets-blog]

@hemingwayed / vincent whitman & bianca fallon. 

with so little movement in & out of sunny daze trailer park, ( in a relatively affluent suburb of connecticut, there was rarely any room for those who didn’t have white picket fences ) bianca usually found herself an unwilling member of the welcome committee. more often than not: delivering a plate of leftover cookies her mother brought home from behind the glass display case at the diner. bringing them to whoever the newest members of the makeshift community was: the diaz family, with three small children, located on plot eight. brianna o’riley, a strung out forty-something year old woman who always offered her cigarettes — and insisted she was a former model, she was plot three. marvin and his son bill, she didn’t know their last name; they were plot five and the most recent addition. she knew everyone, the two dozen residents that called the patchy grass and initial carved trees their backyard. but the man two picnic tables away from her, a relatively familiar figure at this point, with the FREQUENCY he was there: she didn’t know him. and she didn’t like not knowing him: because knowledge was power and power kept her from being stuck here past graduation. and she might as well make friends before she NEVER sees them again. “ am i supposed to know you? ” book is placed down on her own table with a thunk, cigarette butt still burning pressed against the wood to extinguish it. “ not to be like, impolite or anything. we’re just not exactly the least suspicious place to lurk. ”

[lastpoets-blog]

@flaredstar / scarlett atkins & bianca fallon. 

pre-graduation of the elder, there hadn’t been any sort of FEUD between them. as easily persuaded as bianca could be to flee any sort of sense of loyalty in favor for self-interest — she wasn’t an idiot. scarlett atkins was the type of girl to have the exact type of power that could send someone from the top of the food chain to the BOTTOM of it — but now, it seemed, that the pristine essence of the other no longer walked the halls of sheffield high, that bianca had gotten BOLDER. newly appointed cheer captain, a homecoming queen hopeful, queen of the keg stand at each university party she was granted access to: she was no hbic, NOTHING like her successor, but she was popular. and it felt good. and with great popularity comes great power, and sometimes the responsibility that comes soon after can be fumbled, if only slightly. thus had been the case: a changed dance routine miss atkins had somehow caught wind of, the older’s own masterpiece of cheer disregarded. and SUDDENLY: she was face to face with  in the gym of stomping grounds respectively old and current. “ scout, ” she says, primly, reaching back behind her head to tighten a high-pony, accompanied by color coded scrunchie. no one could say she wasn’t spirited. eyes flicker to the other girls exiting the gym, cheer practice recently over. a soft smile fueled purely by petty politeness graces her face. “ i didn’t know the ivy leagues let out early enough that you could ... come back to your local high school. ” a breathy, awkward laugh, and she knows confrontation is coming, so she might as well START it. 

[lastpoets-blog]

@flaredstar / eduardo sutton & luka núñez. 

his FIRST encounters with eduardo sutton, he’d barely been five years old. since his conception ( his mother, his father, his grandfather — god rest ALL their souls, if you were to ask anyone but luka. that gratitude was only sent to the first in the long sentence of death — and only because she hadn’t been AROUND enough to fuck his life up. ) and growing up, through childhood and tumultuous teen years after the thralls of prepubescence, he’d grown to see the older as more FAMILY than boss, even as ed climbed the ranks. and now, even, there’s a sarcastic lilt as he calls out for attention “ ‘ey, boss, ” even in spite of how TERRIFYING the older could be to those on the outside ( or those NEWER to the entire operation ) ... luka’d learned that fellow vipers were more brotherhood than hierarchy. “ what would you say if i told you i had a ... proposition? ”

[moondahluna]

[lastpoets-blog]

scarlett atkins.

     she sticks out like a sore thumb ; dolce heels costing more than dancers earn in a night, cocktail dress too sophisticated for a night at silhouette’s … and then of course it’s the inherent smugness and aura of arrogance which she exudes, making an attire the least of her worries. she’d learned of him through word of mouth, and about the services offered likewise. the vipers had a reputation, and one she suspected they’d uphold … and live up to in every way possible. five foot two, with an extra inch given by t-straps, the girl scours the crowd. tall, tattooed, and handsome : that’s the way he’d been described by a working girl down at sunny daze trailer park. tall, tattooed, and handsome … and spotted. although seated, scout was certain the right man had been found. picked out of a crowd with the help of a slurred description of his tattoos, and a plan is concocted and put into action within moments. she awaits, until entourage is left behind and a bar is approached, cornering the man whilst he’s without his crew of ghouls. “ hi there, ” there’s an innate softness to the voice which she adapts, one that a teenager had adopted throughout the years, one specifically targeted towards those older. she was flirting, alright, in the midst of booming music and a loud audience. but the facade wasn’t one suited for silhouette’s, and it’s far too late to retract now. here’s to hoping the stranger had a soft spot for the vulnerable. “ feel like buying a girl a drink ? ” /  @lastpoets

it’s business as usual, as it always seems to be. one would think drug deals and contract threats & beatings would come with more UNMARKED territory: but it never seems to be. and though mostly, he prefers it that way ( it’s good money, consistent money — and good family to remain involved ) the part of him that had shown initial disinterest in the workings of sheffield’s illicit underbelly wished there was a wilder ride in store for him. perhaps it’s his own fascination with dramatic escapades of how people would expect things to be — perhaps it’s his own RESTLESSNESS. but instead of bonnie and clyde or once upon a time in america: it’s sitting at the bar, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips, stiff drink in his hand. waiting. and that’s when the ever-so incendiary action of an OUTSIDER entering silhouettes captures his attention — especially when heels click against dirty hardwood and the perfect outline of designer cocktail dresses and brand name purses finds itself — HERSELF, now, he can clearly see she’s using that to her advantage. and as words fall of lips and eyes flick over the younger, he’s already flagging down the bartender — wordlessly, and practiced as such. in turn, a response: “ you feel like telling me what some girl like you is doing around these parts? ain’t you have luxury PATRON to be drinking? ”

[lastpoets-blog]

minoo pearce.

     there’s a snide commentary to be made, why, you picked the guy, but she abstains. inner monologue withheld, and rather, sympathy is garnered. a mutual understand for the situation they’re both in, and she nods. “ yeah, me too. ” blue eyes leave her guardian, instead finding discolored limbs and the cuts which have been patched up. even without the streets cleared of snow and her skateboard underneath her arm, minoo pearce finds a way to wind up battered and bruised. “ it’s not an excuse, though. to stay. ” she’s not sure where it’s coming from, but it’s pouring out at a million miles at an hour and she’s nowhere near its conclusion. “ you know the only reason he does is for … this fuckin’ IDEA of a perfect family. for the bragging rights, and for the christmas cards, ” a gaze snaps to framed pictures from over the years, lined up along the wall, a perfect representation of her own descending into rebellion. first there, then with reluctance, and then, finally … not at all. “ he needs us. ” pause. “ he needs me and you and … all of us to play our parts and once we stop– once we all stop … ”  once rachel stops. once a foot is put down and her compliance comes to an end - only then will her father pay attention, only then will he retreat. “ once we leave. he’ll have nothing. ” but it’s not the waving of a white flag that minoo wants, it’s his ultimate vanquishment. she doesn’t crave change, she doesn’t offer second changes - she wants mitchell pearce, on his knees & begging, only to be left alone in the cold, empty house they’d all once resided. what she desperately longed for, was her father’s lifelong misery. “ he doesn’t care about you, mom. ” word vomit proves a mistake with the slip-up of one single word. not since she was thirteen … not since she was still rocking temporary pink dye and studded jackets, not since her first tattoo. “ … about either of us. ”

it’s then she realises she doesn’t love him. maybe part of her always knew, and maybe she just needed to hear someone else say it. he doesn’t care. why do you? and maybe she doesn’t. not about him, not about them. the unity of parenthood, residing over their daughter with an iron fist — mitch & rachel, the unholy duo of white suburbia. she wonders if minoo knows she fought him, at first. when hair was stained the color of whatever box mj had stolen from the corner store, when she came home with her first stick ‘n poke. before she’d GIVEN UP: it had been tooth and nail — not the first of their arguments, but the first time glass shattered, the first time she used concealer on chrome fingerprints on her wrists that said ‘don’t walk out when i’m talking to you.’ the first ( and only, she’d never found the last few ) time she knelt down on the floor, SOBBING because he’d reached into the jewelry box and ripped apart her mother’s pearl necklace. one of the only things she didn’t sell to bail her father out of prison, drunk and stumbling over. she’d worn it for the first pageant she won, and her mother had given it to her for her wedding day. you’ll need it now for your fancy northwestern life, rachel alison. the pearls had scattered across the floor, and she was still missing three. in a way, she thinks that’s how he destroyed the family. TEARING THEM APART. making them be lose, scattered. breeding the insecurity in her that made her treat minoo the way she did — and breeding that same fear in both of them. she’d had necklaces since, but the family stayed the same. always in orbit around him, what he would do, what he would say. she realises then she doesn’t love him: she hates him. and though it opens something deep and black and angry in the pit of her stomach, part of her wishes he was dead. 

it’s that, the simple trigger of realisation, that causes what happens next. bottle, not yet drunk from for once in her life, is hurled against the wall of pictures from across the room. it shatters on impact, scattering glazz and booze onto the carpet, taking several photographs, also with jagged edges, with it. a dent in the wall is nothing that isn’t familiar — they’ve patched up holes from fists before. but now it feels LIBERATING, not terrifying. to be the one ruining things, rather than trying to patch them up and making them so much worse. “ i’m sorry, minoo. ” she says, not for him. not for him, not again. for me, for me for me. “ i’m sorry that i stayed with him. and i’m sorry for not being a better mother. ” for once, the tears in her eyes are not after a bottle and a half of wine, lonely on the kitchen floor. they’re sad, and they’re grateful, and they’re angry, and they’re liberating. “ and i’m sorry i knew, and that i didn’t do anything. ” cowardice, and the guilt that comes trailing behind it when you’re caught in the ACT, it feels so much WORSE than actually doing something. she was a coward; she was both victim and perpetrator of the crime against their daughter. and to stand there, and REALISE: one cannot help but be overwhelmed. she doesn’t dare touch her, she doesn’t dare go for any sort of embrace. instead, an olive branch, in the form of her hand: finally, offering her daughter a choice. it is us, it is us versus him or it is you versus them. please choose us. “ i love you so much. ” she’s always known she’s loved her daughter. it’s then she realises she needs to say it. 

[lastpoets-blog]

@flaredstar / kitty & julian. 

though she’d moved out YEARS ago, most of kitty’s weekends were still spent at the family residence. part fondness for spending time with her mother ( and making sure she isn’t forgotten ) and part fondness for annoying her brother — this particular spot on the couch was a saturday-sunday oasis. eating doritos straight out of the bag and eyes GLUED to the screen where some sort of aquatic documentary is playing, she doesn’t even turn to see who it is when she hears the front door slam. “ you REEK of pot, ” she tells him, spewing crumbs onto her lap, finally turning as the television switches from relaxing narration to a commercial break. “ and B.O., but mom might be used to that by now. ”

[lastpoets-blog]

minoo pearce.

     her father would. there wasn’t a single unpredictable bone in that man’s body, yet she always finds herself at the battlefield - over & over & over. bare legs are brought up on the bed’s comforter, a small girl cross-legged and deciding to face the woman at the opposite end. “ i hear portland’s nice, ” she shrugs, another route possible to be taken - this one a little more plausible. rachel had money, right. some of it at least. enough. “ i’m aimin’ towards l.a., but … if you wanna hitch a ride. ”  it’s the closest to an olive branch she’d ever come to offer the older, but even that fell short. there was no mending a relationship tattered at the seems : they were frayed beyond recognition and no road-trip in the world could absolve them of their past. “ s’long as you’re not against grand theft auto ‘cos i’m definitely taking the car. ”

she’d always wanted to go to l.a. she’d done modelling in georgia, for catalogues and mall advertisements and local commercials. her mother always told her she was pretty enough to be a model — but not tall enough, or skinny enough, and she didn’t have enough charm. but she’d still wanted to go there. it’d been a pipe dream from its inception, especially when she married mitch and moved out of georgia and up to oregon and had a baby. it was hard not to feel trapped, with a baby on your hip and a husband who wouldn’t stop YELLING and enough small town gossip to make you want to put a drill in between your eyes. and so: she’d given minoo, a head above her peers even in youth, the shot rachel had never had. her perfect blue-eyed baby girl. she knew it was wrong while she was doing it, shoving her into itchy polyester and wiping glittery eyeshadow off her cheek when it fell there. but she’d always gotten addicted easily: and she was addicted to seeing herself in her daughter, to seeing someone, anyone get the success she thought she’d DESERVED. and when mj came out different, not wrong, but different — and she’d treated her just the same. she’d still had the pink and the bows and the sequins and the pearls, and she only ever felt bad about it after a few glasses of wine. she’d never not loved her daughter, though, however SELFISH. however misguided, however self-absorbed. however shitty of a mother. she wonders, briefly, if she could even say the same about mitch. so she says, instead of a response to portland or los angeles or a life of crime.  “ i’m sorry he’s like this, ” she wants to reach out and hug her daughter ( GOD, she can’t remember the last time she did. ) but she can’t. she won’t, if only because she doesn’t want to feel her stiffen, or pull away. or LEAVE. and that i’m like this, too.  “ that fucks you up no matter what city you turn to. ” this is the first time she’s been candid, or honest, or REAL. and it makes her feel better, if only for a second. for more than that second — she turns to the second drawer in her vanity. vodka, half empty already. she’s unscrewing the cap before she even glances at minoo, waiting. 

[lastpoets-blog]

blake fraser.

     blake wasn’t a confrontational person regardless of how badly she wished she was; however, there wasn’t a single aggressive bone in her body. if there were, she wouldn’t have suffered through high school in silence ––  no, there would’ve been hell to pay. instead, the brunette opted for the high road. chin up and don’t let them see you cry, build a wall so high no one dare climb. in come bianca, the first person who gave blake a chance. the first person who looked past the rumors and speculations, breaking that wall down brick by brick. after sitting together at lunch turned into weekly sleepovers, she no longer viewed the other as just a friend. she was her sister, the platonic soulmate she desperately needed under the fire of being on the wrong side of what felt like the whole world. nights were spent planning fantasy road trips to bust out of their dead end town, painting each other’s nails while in hysterics over inside jokes, pinky promises and twizzlers. bianca kept blake afloat until one day she didn’t. 

the change felt gradual at first; baby steps taken in the wrong direction and before blake knew it, her best friend was running with the worst of them. junior year felt harder than freshman after having had a taste of friendship for the first time since eighth grade, loneliness a feeling with which she had become reacquainted. sure, the bullying had lessened and she had more acquaintances than enemies, but the hole left by bianca’s absence was far larger than any group of casual school friends could ever fill. firecracker popsicle goes melted on her front curb, flashlights once used under bedsheets growing dust. it ate her up from head to toe –– what did she do wrong ? did the rumors have any truth to them ? was she a no good skank few could love ? that’s what it felt like passing bianca in the halls where they once walked arm in arm, the distance between them palpable. 

parties were one of the greatest places the brunette could go. the loud music and unsupervised consumption of alcohol was therapeutic, in a way. she was just another face in the crowd, making small talk with someone who looked as out of place as she felt. bianca wasn’t that kind of girl –– the party life seemed to fit her now. with her new group of friends and newfound popularity, she was probably more accustomed to these types of things. so much so that she moved through the wave of people effortlessly and in a way that blake hardly even noticed until the two came face to face. she clutched onto her red solo cup tight, swallowing back the lump in her throat before mustering up a reply. “ i guess you don’t really know anything about me anymore. ” it was quiet, almost too quiet underneath the loud bass of music and partygoers, so much so blake almost hopes the other didn’t hear her. 

she does know about her, and that’s what makes it hurt. she knows that she loves twizzlers and hates red vines, she knows that rocket pops are her favorite thing to get from the ice cream truck, she knows her hopes and dreams and how things made her feel. she remembers the stops they’d planned on road trips, she knows what cartoons they’d watch on saturday mornings, and which breakfast cereal she would pull out of the cabinet. she does know, and now that guilt hits her square in the chest, she’s clutching to the memories like grains of sand slipping through her fingers, crying out — see? i still have them. i still know. 

but maybe nowadays, she doesn’t. she doesn’t know what blake got on her last report card, or who she has a crush on, or if she still has the posters they’d ripped out of tiger beat to hang in the back of her closet hanging there, behind the clothes they’d done mock photoshoots in before bianca had her growth spurt. she doesn’t know if there’s still captain crunch and cinnamon toast crunch in her cupboard, or even what’s in the cup that’s in her hand. she remembers sophomoric memories, not the ones of the kind of girls that attend parties like this. she remembers laughing about opening a bed & breakfast in the mountains called b&b’s b&b. she remembers whispered phone calls after bianca’s first time where blake got all the gory details, and she remembers three months after they became friends, crying as she told blake that she didn’t live in the big blue house on the corner of 5th and spruce, and she didn’t have a golden retriever or a baby sister or two parents, and please please forgive her. 

now she’s back to pretending, to lying and nodding along as if everything’s fine. she’s back to changing into clothes she shoplifted from the mall in the school bathroom so her mom doesn’t know she has them, and she’s back to whispering about other people and spreading rumours and saying she lives in that big blue house, which she tells herself probably feels empty inside anyways. she certainly does. and that’s why she scoffs, tossing her head back and letting bouncy brunette waves roll off her shoulders and smiling, the kind she does when waving pom poms that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. the kind she does all the time. “ come on, blake. don’t be like that, ” she sloshes her drink, and then it hits her that she’s drunk. it’s only eight pm, the party’s barely started, and she’s drunk and talking to her ex-best friend and she can feel the prickle of tears in her eyes, and in her mind: she’s STILL clutching that sand to show her i remember i remember i remember. “ it’s a party. we’re supposed to be having fun. ” the music pumps behind them, but her heartbeat is faster.