LOOSE TOOTH// LOST YOUTH

we always did love the taste of the desert, our frail paper skin numbed by the pitch black cold of night interfering with the white hot heat of day. so it only seemed natural for it to end this way. with the taste of slate grey, cold gun metal on the insides of my cheeks, gagging on the barrel of the gun. i would’ve liked to have said something along the lines of “thank you.” or “fuck you.” but i’m not sure which. i would’ve loved to have seen it from the eyes of the heavy mountains that stood in the distant west, so overbearingly close, and yet so terribly far way. would’ve given anything to have watched it all go down; me with my knees to the sand, and you, my best friend, shoving a service pistol down my throat, saying that its “for the best.” telling me that i had “done enough damage for this lifetime.” promising to “see me on the otherside. some day.” i can’t help but hope you’re telling me the truth. i can’t keep myself from wanting to promise that i’ll save you a window seat in hell. and i can’t stop thinking about how we got there.

us in your hot pink ‘57, tearing through the night, using the empty highway just off of the interstate as a perforated line. you in the driver’s seat, and me riding shotgun, my daddy in the trunk. me smiling because you had just saved me from a life sentence, and you fighting back tears for the same reason. you were force feeding me GPC cigarettes to keep the hunger at bay until we made it to the lone star diner on the other side of the state line. we never did stop to eat that night. and i know it was because the heat of the hours before was still pressing hard on the folds of your brain. you were thinking of the phone call, of me asking for your help. you were thinking about how you found me; laying atop his limp body and holding his already half-eaten skull close to my chest, staining the fabric of my new t-shirt, still holding the phone in one hand, the gun held tight in the other. you were thinking about the cleanup; us picking up pieces of skull and fragments of face, tossing them into trash bags, and hauling them into the trunk of your car, along with the rest of him. 

i focused on your porcelain-doll face, illuminated in the orange streetlight as it filled the car every now and again. and as you thought of earlier, i thought of how happy we used to be. cigarettes in our hands and diamonds on our wrists, drenched in our finest furs, and soaked in the stench of cheap booze, still warm on our tongues. wild parties and executive planes and cheap motel rooms turned into grade-A suites. i thought of all the bars we spent our nights in, the bedrooms of strangers that we woke up in. and the more i thought about it, the more i realized that this time was no different. pedal to the metal. i thought you were saving my ass, but now i know that you were saving my life. ride or die. its like i told you, right? 

and when you thought we had gotten far enough out into the barren wasteland of that frigid desert night, you stopped the car. i waited inside as you opened the door and stepped out, popping the trunk and emerging with a shovel. i admired your determination, and the ultimate glamour of it all; you still in your 8 inch heels, wasting no time, digging a shallow grave in the sand just a few yards from the edge of the highway. and i laughed because i never could clean up my own mess. not even my own bedroom. and so i took the last drag of my cigarette slowly, and then followed suit, struggling under the weight of my father as i dragged him out of the trunk and over to the fresh hole in the ground. i dropped the trash bags in first. and then rolled his body over the edge, but not before kissing him, cold and on the lips, in one last ditch, integrally futile attempt at resuscitation. and as you told me it would be okay, i understood it to the fullest. you pulled the gun out of your purse, only to find that i had already dropped to my knees. “well shit, at least you tried.” you said, and we laughed. i tried to appreciate the taste of slate grey, cold gun metal on the insides of my cheeks, gagging on the barrel of the gun. i would’ve liked to have said something along the lines of “thank you.” or “fuck you.” but i’m pretty sure it was “thank you.”

and you told me that i was “too young to be this bad.” and i smiled, my teeth chipping against the unforgiving cold of the gun. and if i remember correctly, i was still smiling when you pulled the trigger. i always did love the taste of the desert.