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Description
"I drink too much."
They laugh, because the only thing I'm drowning in
is diet soda and memories.
I'm nursing my third cup now, the cardboard held loosely in my hands
but the straw locked between my lips.
Bits of plastic catch in my throat,
scraping, so I stop chewing my straw.
They're sharing, picking over fries that taste like paper
and spilling their stories like their chocolate shakes.

One was dumped by his first girlfriend for his best friend.
A girl moans about the engagement of her old crush
while another gushes about her high school sweetheart, still going steady.
And with my monotone voice and rolling eyes,
I dance around my trust issues like my fingers do through the salt on the table.
Then the boy to my right with charming profanity
sighs deep and bears his life like the pins on his denim jacket.
He's too pretty to suffer, I think.
Thirty minutes pass though his story only needed five.
We don't stop him - we don't mind
staying up late.
Heads droop but ears are open, hungry.
When he's done, his heartbreak laid on the table,
we ball up our wrappers like we could wipe his pain away with the trash.
My head hits his shoulder,
and the smell of weed is hidden in his denim, under
stale cigarettes and hair gel.
Tipping my soda back, I taste memories with his scent.
I remember my brother's glassy eyes again now,
his shaking frame leaving my home with a desperate hesitation.

He was too pretty to suffer, I thought.

Description
"I drink too much."
They laugh, because the only thing I'm drowning in
is diet soda and memories.
I'm nursing my third cup now, the cardboard held loosely in my hands
but the straw locked between my lips.
Bits of plastic catch in my throat,
scraping, so I stop chewing my straw.
They're sharing, picking over fries that taste like paper
and spilling their stories like their chocolate shakes.

One was dumped by his first girlfriend for his best friend.
A girl moans about the engagement of her old crush
while another gushes about her high school sweetheart, still going steady.
And with my monotone voice and rolling eyes,
I dance around my trust issues like my fingers do through the salt on the table.
Then the boy to my right with charming profanity
sighs deep and bears his life like the pins on his denim jacket.
He's too pretty to suffer, I think.
Thirty minutes pass though his story only needed five.
We don't stop him - we don't mind
staying up late.
Heads droop but ears are open, hungry.
When he's done, his heartbreak laid on the table,
we ball up our wrappers like we could wipe his pain away with the trash.
My head hits his shoulder,
and the smell of weed is hidden in his denim, under
stale cigarettes and hair gel.
Tipping my soda back, I taste memories with his scent.
I remember my brother's glassy eyes again now,
his shaking frame leaving my home with a desperate hesitation.

He was too pretty to suffer, I thought.