Coke Without Ice

The girl who bullied me

had greasy skin and half-moon nails,

drank her Coke without ice,

leaned bow-legged against the wall

like she knew what beauty cost.

My bully was me.

I had no friends—

only obsessions,

mostly older girls who smelled of iris

and something black-tea bitter.

Sallys. Tamaras. Dollys.

Names that made the air look glossy.

They floated by lockers

like cigarettes in slow motion,

while I studied posture, timing, tone—

the science of what cannot be learned.

I wanted them to sense me,

the quiet cool of my knowing,

but I was giving awkward,

I was giving wrong century.

When I opened my mouth,

everything lovely leaked out sideways.

I knew colors like lovers—

pink lava-lamp flesh,

spaceship silver,

sunset bruised orange-lilac—

but none of it translated.

Words abandoned me mid-sentence,

leaving only the echo of my effort.

Sometimes, before sleep,

I replayed the conversation with Sarah.

You must understand—

she was the kind of rich that smells clean.

Her family fostered children,

and wore philanthropy like silk pajamas.

I wanted her to like me,

so I tried to sound bright.

Too bright.

The space between us tightened—

even the silence looked away.

Sometimes I still see her—

greasy skin, trembling straw,

that Coke sweating in her hand.

She drinks it warm, like punishment,

and smiles as if she finally

deserves the burn.

s.g.