By Melanie Maggard
She tells you to fuck off, exhales cigarettes and vomits beer with boys in a basement or truck bed or behind bleachers. She shoves you to the ground and steals strawberry-scented lip gloss from your locker when she hears it’s your birthday. She whispers she doesn’t give a shit about you, that you could rot in hell for all she cares. She watches you from her black-rimmed confidence, and you know that she knows about you. She doesn’t play or join; she’s too busy digging graves and hiding. She doesn’t have parents phoning teachers or packing lunches or showing up. She walks home alone or gets a ride from some townie she knows is tired of his girlfriend. She throws away report cards and fakes signatures on permission slips and checkbooks. She can cook meals for three because she’s got two little brothers with growling stomachs. She does laundry and works part-time jobs to pay bills she shouldn’t have to. She cries into her pillow at night, trying to sleep with headphones blaring classical music to hide the yelling and falling of bodies. She strides through the classroom when her name is called to the office, so everyone fantasizes about how much trouble she is in instead of knowing she must pick up her dad from the drunk tank because he won’t stop calling until she does. She wants you to know she isn’t so bad, and you aren’t that good. She tells you to move on.
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Melanie Maggard is a flash writer and poet who loves dribbles and drabbles. She has published in Cotton Xenomorph, The Citron Review, The Mackinaw, Peatsmoke Journal, X-R-A-Y Magazine, Ghost Parachute, and others, including a story in Best Microfiction 2025. She can be found online at http://www.melaniemaggard.com