Boys got us drunk and drove us down country roads where they pretended to love us. Afterward we lipsticked their names on bathroom mirrors, inked our names on boys’ arms, tattooing them to us.
Time passed, the ink faded. We bought nothing, spent time.
Ghosts wandered hallways and warned us not to tell. What could happen if we told, what would happen if we told? We talked about everything else. Everything we talked about and didn’t because we were quiet like the night was quiet, tattoo of gravel on tires when boys drove us down country roads where they pretended to love us.
Hear Sarah Freligh read her piece
Sarah Freligh is the author of six books, including Sad Math, winner of the 2014 Moon City Press Poetry Prize, and the recently released A Brief Natural History of Women, from Harbor Editions. Among her awards are poetry fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Saltonstall Foundation.