There’s a fire drill
and turns out I’m not
the only person I’ve ever met
who needs a psychiatrist. We’re not
even sixteen and his voice is moist with
the not-asking why I’m here, how long I’ve
been coming. Do I like it? Unvoiced, un-looked-for,
even. At the beach we’re telling people we’re brother
and sister – can’t you see we have the same smile?
And they believe us, even though my eyes are
green, his whiskey-dark. We both have curly
hair and cheekbones for days, though. We
ooze charm as our pockets rattle with
pills, our hands shake even when
we’re holding each other.