13 Months

The person he could have been stands on stage and gives her Valedictorian speech to the crowd. His hands shake as he holds the phone, trying to capture his past and her future.

People always thought they were twins.

Same nose, same eyes, same cutting words. Brilliance proved with arbitrary grades and intimidating IQs.

Good schools, always the best, but evil seems more alluring to him, even though she has the same sparkle in her eyes.

Always the same whispers.

Doctor,” when she’s alone.

Criminal,” when it’s just him.

Gorgeous,” when they walk by together.

There’s nothing you can say to them that they haven’t already said to themselves.

Blonde highlights reflect bland ambition, and you can tell they’ve had their teeth straightened. He stabbed her in the face once with a pen, and you can still see the scar above her lip. Like always, expensive clothes conceal what we all know is true.

He is a trophy wrapped in a pill bottle. Clear plastic that’s getting cloudy with age, but somehow keeps getting easier to see through.

She is a razor wrapped in a white coat. Starched and ironed, but no matter how many times it’s bleached, she can’t seem to get the stains out.

Separate coasts collide, and they are together again.

The future is gone, the past scrubbed clean.

Seated outside, mother’s credit card in hand, he stares at his phone and tries not to cry.

I missed you,” she says.

I think I missed you more”.

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