If I die, call my mom

“If I die, call my mom.”

Under neon lights and excruciating noise. We sit on a leather brown couch of a rundown house owned by

parents who work hard while their children don’t appreciate

them.

But who can blame them? They’re young. They’re wild.

They’re terrified of what’s next.

Everything seemed silent as the tab dissolved on my tongue but I knew there was noise around me. Messy and chaotic like a young galaxy. Jumbled together gravity and stars that don’t shine as bright as they use to.

Disappointed times and sorrows, I’m holding your hand under this neon light. Telling you to call my mom if I get feverish. If I get the sudden urge to speak my mind and not hide in my shell. If my eyes start to blur and my mouth starts to say things I wouldn’t say. If I start to figure out that I might truly be happier without all of this- without you. Call my mom. If this goes well and I don’t die. Still, call my mom.

Chance Rochelle