September, 2017

amelie randall

Foundation bottles, three different

shades. Light pink sneakers dragged through

the dirt. Everything is somebody else’s 

fault. I am in bed with a boy

I won’t speak to come June. This is a living

memory. Video game remotes 

on the floor. Ceramic Iron Man 

full of condoms. We walk the high school 

at midnight, eat takeout on the astroturf.

Trash floats on the wind. Gray rolls 

over the hills, spills into the velvet 

darkness that is our neighborhood.

My stolen bike rusts somewhere. I dress up 

as homecoming queen, as girl-who-steals-

vodka-from-the-grocery-store. I hold a bowl 

of Kraft mac n’ cheese and snarl

at his iPhone camera. We dance 

around the living room. Innocence—cheap 

perfume. Neglected Easter eggs 

still tucked behind the wood pile. Post-it notes

unnoticed on the fridge. Bird pasted 

to the asphalt. We see two, and I tell him

it’s a sign, it’s a greeting card.

Amelie Randall is a senior at Interlochen Arts Academy in Interlochen, Michigan. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards.