Lauren Biel

When my mother died that day, a part of me went with her. The part that still shined with some glimmer of happiness tucked inside that terrible darkness.

I smack the passenger window as he slams on the gas and throws a thick spray of rainwater into my face.

I won’t allow him to take me home again, even if he smiles and asks nicely

I type her first name and our city into the search bar, but I only get articles about how the trees do in our climate

I lean over her, gather saliva in my mouth, and drop it between her parted lips.

“Turn the car around,”

“No, I’m taking you to the cabin. What’s the problem?”

“Sounds like you’re projecting,”

“Why else would you pull away like that?”

Did you ever consider that maybe I don’t fucking care about them?”