The following story is by guest contributor Harvey Lovelle.
Don’t tell Mom and Dad that I suck smoke through my teeth to make my brain crackle and knuckles go numb. Don’t tell them how the chemicals pump through my blood to let my bones shake and dance and move all around.
Don’t tell Mom and Dad that I slip my fingers inside pretty women. Tell them instead I met a boy named Matthew. Tell them we drink pink lemonade on his patio. Tell them we assembled a chair together. It was cerulean blue like the color of my childhood bedroom. Tell Dad I used a screwdriver just like how he taught me to.
Don’t tell Mom and Dad how my landlord’s eyes make my skin scream. Tell them instead that people are nice to me. Tell them my customers tip well. Tell them I miss the dog and the garden and their broken-down minivan, too. Tell them I want to come home soon.