the scars on my knees are
bridges back to our summer
at the lake
where we’d wave
to the 7 pm train conductors
from our innertubes,
forget to fasten
our bathing suit tops
before doing so.
he told me I was nothing
but a ghost on the stairs,
that my sadness was the same
as every teenage girl’s sadness.
I drove from lake to lake
discovering the darkness in myself.
the grapes withered on the vines
and I kept driving.
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