By Morgan Williams


We are eating mint chocolate chip ice cream in

the glow of the refrigerator light. 

It is past midnight and 

neither of us are hungry. 

Both of us are happy. 

You and I have known each other 

since preschool. 

So, essentially, 



We have graduated from the 

school of hating our parents. 

We have just started hating ourselves. We

are of the ripe age of gossiping

and grabbing our extra skin in the mirror

when no one is looking. 

We are on the brink of the sadness.

the same one that will drown 

us both for a few years. 


The same one that will continue 

to come down on us from time to time. 


And us, the unprepared fools, 

will just let it soak up our clothes,

drip from our brow bones, 

and over our lips. 


We don’t talk much anymore, 

but you called me last week. 

I answered the phone and heard your

crying and instantly we were 

twelve years old. 


We were best friends again 

and the familiarity left a hole 

in my lungs the size of all secrets

we told each other after the lights

went out. 


the story of a girl who ate 45 scoops of ice cream                                    DON