Seventeen
She had brown hair, brown eyes, and a nose too long to be beautiful. Her laugh wasn't like music, and it wasn't cute when she sneezed. She was the kind of girl who would kick your ass because you were mean to her friends. She was the kind of girl who, when asked her name, would say, "You can call me Bob." and hold her fingers up in a peace sign. She would never be found hanging around after class to ask a burning question- no, she was the kind who wouldn't come to class at all.
She had sticky fingers, and liked to fake an accent. She smoked; the cigarettes were taken away too many times to count, but she still smoked. She laughed, her non-musical laugh, when people doubted that her throaty voice could produce an on-key note.
I remember the last time I saw her. Same droopy brown hair, same long nose, same marlboro cigarettes sticking from her pocket and hanging from her lip. She hadn't changed the outside. No one looked close enough to see that her laugh was rare, and the silences, once so comfortable, were stony and bitter. She rocked our world, with her bright eyes and crooked smile, her nicotine stained teeth, her sarcastic laugh, and her departure from this world.
She had sticky fingers, and liked to fake an accent. She smoked; the cigarettes were taken away too many times to count, but she still smoked. She laughed, her non-musical laugh, when people doubted that her throaty voice could produce an on-key note.
I remember the last time I saw her. Same droopy brown hair, same long nose, same marlboro cigarettes sticking from her pocket and hanging from her lip. She hadn't changed the outside. No one looked close enough to see that her laugh was rare, and the silences, once so comfortable, were stony and bitter. She rocked our world, with her bright eyes and crooked smile, her nicotine stained teeth, her sarcastic laugh, and her departure from this world.