CAITLYN CURRAN
ALL I WANTED I wanted Skittles when he died and Marlboros — so whenever someone asked can I bring you anything? that’s what I said. Sour Skittles, their grainy choke to make your eyes well up. I’d suck them bald and sweet, then swallow. Marlboro 27s. My touch stayed sour. My raw tongue a thin machine of thank-yous. That night of the wreck I couldn’t ind a lighter. Kept pleading with the cops — Matches? Anything? There’s got to be a ire somewhere I can lit my mouth to. Ater, I wouldn’t eat for months without choking. Spitting out my food like I never was programmed to swallow. Now, six years pile up and I eat them with salt. Like a freckle or a splinter, each mundane hour becomes a part of me without my permission, like he was then, with the tire on his back, part truck.
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