You are eighteen and withdrawn,
smoking cigarettes in the back
of your best friend’s van, watching
the way her mouth forms the word
"wait" forms the words "shh they’ll hear"
forms the word “please”
You always knew you’d die in a car, you
just thought it would be moving,
thought it would be the glass or the
hard stop of pavement that did you in,
not the shade of her lipstick and the
sickening taste of gin.