The same girl with the most extreme opinion
draws her lines in sharpie.
Won’t speak to anyone
who colors outside them.
I remain her friend
because my spine is too loose
to hold true under weight.
She keeps saying
“If you disagree, you’re part of the problem,”
and I justify our friendship
by telling myself
that holding still,
keeping quiet,
lets me hear
past her static.
But somewhere underneath
it bothers me
that I don’t stand up and say
what the **** are you blabbing about,
you idiot.
It feels like a bulge
under my jugular notch.
That pressure when someone’s talking
and you want to speak
but must wait your turn.
A tingling, burning sensation
just behind the sternum.
If it had looks,
it’s the flame of a candle
someone just put the lid back on.
It slowly extinguishes,
leaving smoke
to fill the vacuum.
See the truth, not the charge.
