Coke Without Ice
The girl who bullied me / had greasy skin and half-moon nails, / drank her Coke without ice … My bully was me.
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.
Spare Parts & Poems lives inside Sheridan’s Junk Drawer— the side channel. Welcome. It’s messy in here.
xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
What Sheridan Said
SheridanGuerrette.com
Wow! Excellent!