All That’s Lit To Print




Drool

By Gabriella Montrose


He tried to count
the knots of my spine, but we couldn't keep the
numbers straight.
We laughed and thought
how that morning we had known
derivatives

he wrapped my shoulders in his arms
and I turned my head
and he (in slow-motion) spat out my ponytail
and linked his fingers across my spine
and told me I was his
sister.

We breathed laughter and sat up. He asked me for the
pen and tucked it in my hair tie. I pushed
him and we crumpled like loose tissue, and
he, by chance, caught my sleeve and pulled me across
him and we lay soft-
askew

A's and C's and passive-aggressive humble brags meant nothing:
we had
weed and grass-stained clothes and
oblivious confidence because
we were
high

Weed has no compunction, so I asked:
was I
pretty?
Did he love me (like a sister) and was
he being
honest?

There was drool in my hair;
we had lost the pen
in the grass, but it
was okay
because my ribs were—I was—
warm








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